A Touch of Reality
by DecimatedOddity
Summary: There were more murmurs and another surge forward, and in someone's haste to get through, Thomas was bumped and he tripped with a gasp of horror, falling with wide eyes as he reached and clawed at anything, but his hands only found air. An eight foot fall into the Box and Thomas landed on his back with a hard thud next to the girl's unmoving body.
1. 1

**A/N:** Okay guys! Here's my second fic. These things are like tattoos lol Once you start you can't stop!

First and foremost, this fic will have nowhere _near_ as much smut as my last fic. So if that's what you're looking for, I'm sorry to let you down. There will be a little bit of it scattered throughout here though. Because these are _teenagers_ we're talking about here. Hello. Jame's version always seemed a little cracked to me. I admire his creativity with the Gladers' slang, but teenagers are _going_ to curse. And I also find it hard to believe that out of all those guys, no one was gay! So here's my version, with a touch of reality tossed in there. This fiction is pretty much Jame's version copied and pasted with few small changes here and there and few _major_ changes in other places. I kept most of Jame's lingo because I actually like it, but the Gladers _will_ be cursing here and there like actual teenage boys do. **The first chapter is completely the same. I didn't change anything so you can skip if you want.**

ooo

He began his new life standing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air.

Metal ground against metal; a lurching shudder shook the floor beneath him. He fell down at the sudden movement and shuffled backward on his hands and feet, drops of sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. His back struck a hard metal wall; he slid along it until he hit the corner of the room. Sinking to the floor, he pulled his legs up tight against his body, hoping his eyes would soon adjust to the darkness.

With another jolt, the room jerked upward like an old lift in a mine shaft.

Harsh sounds of chains and pulleys, like the workings of an ancient steel factory, echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls with a hollow, tiny whine. The lightless elevator swayed back and forth as it ascended, turning the boy's stomach sour with nausea; a smell like burnt oil invaded his senses making him feel worse. He wanted to cry, but no tears came; he could only sit there, alone, waiting.

 _My name is Thomas_ , he thought.

That… that was the only thing he could remember about his life.

He didn't understand how this could be possible. His mind functioned without flaw, trying to calculate his surroundings and predicament. Knowledge flooded his thoughts, facts and images, memories and details of the world and how it works. He pictured snow on the trees, running down a leaf-strewn road, eating a hamburger, the moon casting a pale glow on a grassy meadow, swimming in a lake, a busy city square with hundreds of people bustling about their business.

And yet he didn't know where he came from, or how he'd gotten inside the dark lift, or who his parents were. He didn't even know his last name. Images of people flashed across his mind, but there was no recognition, their faces replaced with haunted smears of color. He couldn't think of one person he knew, or recall a single conversation.

The room continued its ascent, swaying; Thomas grew immune to the ceaseless rattling of the chains that pulled him upward. A long time passed. Minutes stretched into hours, although it was impossible to know for sure because every second seemed an eternity. No. He was smarter than that. Trusting his instincts, he knew he'd been moving for roughly _half_ an hour.

Strangely enough, he felt his fear whisked away like a swarm of gnats caught in the wind, replaced by an intense curiosity. He wanted to know where he was and what was happening.

With a groan and then a clonk, the rising room halted; sudden change jolted Thomas from his huddled position and threw him across the floor. As he scrambled to his feet, he felt the room sway less and less until it finally stilled. Everything fell silent.

A minute passed. Two. He looked in every direction but saw only darkness; he felt along the walls again, searching for a way out. But there was nothing, only the cool metal. He groaned in frustration; his echo amplified through the air, like the haunted moan of death. It faded, and silenced returned. He screamed, called for help, pounded on the walls with his fists.

Nothing.

Thomas backed into the corner once again, folded his arms and shivered, and the fear returned. He felt a worrying shudder in his chest, as if his heart wanted to escape, to flee his body.

" _Someone. . . help. . . me!_ " he screamed; each word ripped his throat raw.

A loud clank rang out above him and he sucked in a startled breath as he looked up. A straight line of light appeared across the ceiling of the room, and Thomas watched as it expanded. A heavy grating sound revealed double sliding doors being forced open. After so long in darkness, the light stabbed his eyes; he looked away, covering his face with both hands.

He heard noises above—voices—and fear squeezed his chest.

"Look at the shank."

"How old is he?"

"Looks like klunk in a T-shirt."

"You're the klunk, shuck-face."

"Dude, it smells like _feet_ down there!"

"Hope you enjoyed the one way trip up, Greenie."

"Ain't no ticket back, bro."

Thomas was hit with a wave of confusion, blistered with panic. The voices were odd, tinged with echo; some of the words were completely foreign—others felt familiar. He willed his eyes to adjust as he squinted toward the light and those speaking. At first he could see only shifting, shadows, but they soon turned into the shapes of bodies—people bending over the hole in the ceiling, looking down at him, pointing.

And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were boys, all of them—some young, some older. Thomas didn't know what he'd expected, but seeing those faces puzzled him. They were just teenagers. Kids. Some of his fear melted away, but not enough to calm his racing heart.

Someone lowered a rope from above, the end of it tied into a big loop. Thomas hesitated, then stepped into it with his right foot and clutched the rope as he was yanked toward the sky. Hands reached down, lots of hands, grabbing him by his clothes, pulling him up. The world seemed to spin, a swirling mist of faces and color and light. A storm of emotions wrenched his gut, twisted and pulled; he wanted to scream, cry, throw up. The chorus of voices had grown silent, but someone spoke as they yanked him over the sharp edge of the dark box. And Thomas knew he'd never forget the words.

"Nice to meet ya, shank," the boy said. "Welcome to the Glade."


	2. 2

The helping hands didn't stop swarming around him until Thomas stood up straight and had the dust brushed from his shirt and pants. Still dazzled by the light, he staggered a bit. He was consumed with curiosity but still felt too ill to look closely at his surroundings. His new companions said nothing as he swiveled his head around, trying to take it all in.

As he rotated in a slow circle, the other kids snickered and stared; some reached out and poked him with a finger. There had to be at least forty of them, their clothes smudged and sweaty as if they'd been hard at work, all shapes and sizes and races, their hair of varying lengths. Thomas suddenly felt dizzy, his eyes flickering between the boys and the bizarre place in which he'd found himself.

They stood in a vast courtyard several times the size of a football field, surrounded by four enormous walls made of gray stone and covered in spots with thick ivy. The walls had to be hundreds of feet high and formed a perfect square around them, each side split in the exact middle by and opening as tall as the walls themselves that, from what Thomas could see, led to passages and long corridors beyond.

"Look at the Greenbean," a scratchy voice said; Thomas couldn't see who it came from. "Gonna break his shuck neck checkin' out the new digs." Several boys laughed.

"Shut your hole, Gally," a deeper voice responded.

Thomas focused back in on the dozens of strangers around him. He knew he must look out of it—he felt like he'd been drugged. A tall kid with blonde hair and a square jaw sniffed at him, his face devoid of expression. A short pudgy boy fidgeted back and forth on his feet, looking up at Thomas with wide eyes. A dark-skinned boy frowned—the same one who welcomed him. Countless others stared. A thick, heavily muscled Asian kid folded his arms as he studied Thomas, his tight shirtsleeves rolled up to show off his biceps. He was easily the most handsome person here.

Looking at this kid, (Well, Thomas thought kid was the wrong word. He couldn't be any younger than sixteen) watching the sweat roll down his thick arms, and the way his broad chest looked in that tight shirt, Thomas felt a wave of emotion that he couldn't find a name for. And they felt wrong , like he shouldn't be having them. This only created more questions, and more confusion. Thomas didn't notice that he was still staring at the guy until they boy narrowed his eyes at him in what was clearly a defensive manner. Thomas immediately averted his gaze.

"Where am I?" Thomas asked, surprised at hearing his voice for the first time in his salvageable memory. It didn't sound quite right—higher than he would've imagined.

"Nowhere good." This came from the dark-skinned boy. "Just slim yourself nice and calm."

"I wonder which Keeper is he gonna get?" Thomas heard someone say from inside the crowd.

"I told you shuck-face," a shrill voice responded. "He's klunk, so he'll be a Slopper—no doubt about it."

The kid giggled like he'd just said the funniest thing in history.

Thomas once again felt a pressing ache of confusion, on top of the odd emotions he felt toward That Handsome Asian Guy and everything else—hearing so many words and phrases that didn't make since. _Shank. Shuck. Keeper. Slopper._ They popped out of the boys' mouths so naturally it seemed odd for him not to understand. It was as if his memory loss had stolen a chunk of his language—it was disorienting.

Different emotions battled for dominance in his mind and heart. Confusion. Curiosity. Panic. Fear. Lust. But laced through it all was the dark feelings of utter hopelessness, like the world had ended for him, had been wiped from his memory and replaced with something awful. He wanted to run and hide from these people.

The scratchy voiced boy was talking. "—even do that much, bet my liver on it." Thomas still couldn't see his face.

"I said shut you holes!" the dark boy yelled. ""Keep yapping and next break'll be cut in half!"

That must be their leader, Thomas realized. Hating how everyone gawked at him, he concentrated on studying the place the boy called the Glade.

The floor of the courtyard looked like it was made of huge stone blocks, many of them cracked and filled with long grasses and weeds. An odd, dilapidated wooden building near one of the corners of the square contrasted greatly with the gray stone. A few trees surrounded it, their roots like gnarled hands digging into the rock floor for food. Another corner of the compound held gardens—from where he was standing Thomas recognized corn, tomato plants, fruit trees.

Across the courtyard from there stood wooden pens holding sheep and pigs and cows. A large grove of trees filled the corner; the closest ones looked crippled and close to dying. The sky overhead was cloudless and blue, but Thomas could see no sign of the sun despite the brightness of the day. The creeping shadows of the walls didn't reveal the time or direction—it could be early morning or late afternoon. As he breathed in deeply, trying to settle his nerves, a mixture of smells bombarded him. Freshly turned dirt, manure, pine, something rotten and something sweet. Somehow he knew that these were the smells of a farm.

Thomas looked back at his captors, feeling awkward but desperate to ask questions. _Captor,_ he though. Then, _Why did that word pop in my head?_ He scanned their faces, taking in each expression, judging them. One boy's eyes, flared with hatred, stopped him cold. He looked so angry, Thomas wouldn't have been surprised if the kid came at him with a knife. He had black hair, and when they made eye contact, the boy shook his head and turned away, walking toward a greasy iron pole with a wooden bench next it. A multicolored flag hung limply at the top of the pole, no wind to reveal its pattern.

Shaken, Thomas stared at the boy's back until he turned and took a seat. Thomas quickly looked away.

Suddenly the leader of the group—perhaps he was seventeen—took a step forward. He wore normal clothes: black T-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, a digital watch. For some reason the clothing here surprised Thomas; it seemed like everyone should be wearing something more menacing—like prison carb. The dark-skinned boy had short-cropped hair, his face clean shaven. But other than the permanent scowl, there was nothing scary about him at all. He was actually almost as handsome as the Asian guy. With his full dark lips, and high cheek bones.

And again, without a viable explanation, Thomas felt that he shouldn't have those thoughts.

"It's a long story," the boy said. "Piece by piece, you'll learn—I'll be takin' you on the Tour tomorrow. Till then… just don't break anything." He held a hand out. "Name's Alby." He waited, clearly wanting to shake hands.

Thomas refused. Some instinct took over his actions and without saying anything he turned away from Alby and walked to a nearby tree, where he plopped down to sit with his back against the rough bark. Panic swelled inside him again, almost too much to bear. But he took a deep breath and forced himself to try to accept the situation. _Just go with it_ , he thought. _You won't figure out anything if you give into fear._

"Then tell me," Thomas called out, struggling to keep his voice even. "Tell me the long story."

Alby glanced at the friends closest to him, rolling his eyes, and Thomas studied the crowd again. His original estimate had been close—there were probably forty to fifty of them, ranging from boys in their mid-teens to young adults like Alby, who seemed to be one of the oldest. At that moment, Thomas realized with a sickening lurch that he had no idea how old _he_ was. His heart sank at thought—he was so lost he didn't even know his own age.

"Seriously," he said, giving up on the show of courage. "Where am I?"

Alby walked over to him and sat down cross-legged; the crowd of boys followed and packed in behind. Heads popped up here and there, kids leaning in every direction to get a better look.

"If you ain't scared," Alby said," You ain't human. Act any different and I'd throw you off the Cliff because it'd mean you're psycho."

"The Cliff?" Thomas asked, blooding draining from his face.

"Shuck it," Alby said, rubbing his eyes. "Ain't no way to start these conversations, you get me? We don't kill shanks like you here, I promise. Just try and avoid _being_ killed, survive, whatever."

He paused, and Thomas realized his face must've whitened even more when heard that last part.

"Man," Alby said, then ran his hands over his short hair as he let out a long sigh, "I ain't good at this—you're the first Greenbean since Nick was killed."

Thomas's eyes widened, and another boy stepped up and playfully slapped Alby across the head. "Wait for the bloody Tour, Alby," he said, his voice thick with an odd accent that Thomas discovered he liked. "Kid's gonna have a buggin' heart attack, nothing been heard yet." He bent down and extended his hand toward Thomas. "Name's Newt, Greenie, and we'd all be right cheery if ya'd forgive our klunk-for-brains leader, here."

Newt seemed a lot nicer than Alby. He smiled at Thomas whereas Alby scowled. He was taller than Alby too, but he looked a year or so younger. His hair was blonde and cut long, cascading over his T-shirt. Thomas found that he liked that as well. His irises were astonishingly green. Veins stuck out of his muscled arms. However, he was not as handsome as Alby. His nose was a little wide and his lips slightly too thin, but Thomas discovered that he liked this boy's face just as much as he liked his accent. He reached out and shook the boy's hand, as he smiled back, the first once to cross his face in his memory. Then the situation he was in creeped back around him and the smile slowly left his face.

"Pipe it shuck-face," Alby grunted, pulling Newt down to sit next to him, directly in front of Thomas. "At least he can understand _half_ my words." There was a few scattered laughs, and then everyone gathered behind Alby and Newt, packing in even tighter, waiting to hear what they said.

Alby spread his arms out, palms up. "This place is called the Glade, all right? It's where we live, where we eat, where we sleep," Thomas found it difficult to concentrate on Alby's words with Newt in front of him. His eyes kept glancing to him instead of the person speaking, but Thomas forced himself to focus because he was getting what he wanted—an explanation. "We call ourselves the Gladers. That's all you—" But Thomas knew what he was going to say before he said it, and in his opinion, that was not all he needed to know.

"Who sent me here?" Thomas, demanded, desperate for more information, fear finally giving way to anger. "How'd—"

But Alby's hand out shot before he could finish, grabbing Thomas by the shirt as he leaned forward on his knees. "Get up, shank, get up!" Alby stood, pulling Thomas with him.

Thomas finally got his feet under him, scared all over again. He backed against the tree trying to get away from Alby, who stayed right in his face.

"No interruptions, boy!" Alby shouted. "Whacker, if we told you everything, you'd die on the spot, right after you klunked your pants. Baggers'd drag you off, and you ain't no good to us then are ya?"

"I don't even know even know what you're talking about," Thomas said slowly, shocked at how steady his voice sounded.

Newt reached out and grabbed Alby by the shoulders, giving Thomas an excuse to look at him. "Alby lay off a bit. You're hurtin' more than helping you know?"

Alby let go of Thomas's shirt and stepped back, his chest heaving with breaths. Thomas sent Newt a quick thankful smile which he saw Newt return it with a nod of his head, before Alby was speaking.

"Ain't got time to be nice, Greenbean. Old life's over, new life's begun. Learn the rules quick, listen, don't talk. You get me?"

Thomas looked over at Newt, hoping for help. Everything inside him churned and hurt; the tears that had yet to come burned his eyes.

Newt nodded. "Greenie, you get him, right?" He nodded again, eyeing Thomas, as if willing him to nod as well.

Thomas fumed. He wanted to punch somebody. But staring into Newt's warm, deep, eyes, he relaxed a little for some unknown reason and said, "Yeah."

"Good that," Alby said. "First day. That what today is for you, shank. Night's comin', Runners'll be back soon. The Box came late today, ain't got time for the Tour. Tomorrow morning, right after the wake-up." He turned toward Newt. "Get him a bed, get him to sleep."

"Good that," Newt said.

Alby's eyes returned to Thomas, narrowing. "A few weeks, you'll be happy, shank. You'll be happy and helpin'." With the way Thomas was feeling, he highly doubted that. "None of us knew jack on First Day, you neither. New life begins tomorrow."

Alby turned and pushed through the crowd, then headed for the slanted wooden building in the corner. Most of the boys wandered then, each one giving Thomas a lingering look before they walked off.

Thomas folded his arms, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Emptiness ate away at his insides, quickly replaced by a sadness that hurt his heart. It was all too much—where was he? What was this place? Was it some kind of prison? If so, why had he been sent here, and for how long? The language was odd, and none of the boys seemed to care whether he lived or died. Tears threatened again to fill his eyes.

"What did I do?" he whispered, not really meaning for anyone to hear him. "What did I do—why'd they send me here?"

Newt clapped him on the shoulder. Had Alby made this gesture, Thomas would've shoved his hand away. But he let Newt's palm rest on his shoulder, and found that he liked it there. "Greenie, what you're feelin', we've all felt it. We've all had First Day, come out of that dark box. It's okay to cry, mate. I cried for a week when I first got here. Just get all the tears out now, because things are bad, they are, and they'll get much worse for ya soon, that's the truth. But down the road a piece… I _promise_ … you'll be happy." And when Newt said it, Thomas believed him. But he still needed to know.

"Is this a prison?" Thomas dug in the darkness of his thoughts, trying to find a crack to his past.

"Done asked four questions today, haven't ya?" Newt replied with a light grin, removing his hand from Thomas's shoulder. "No good answers for ya, not yet anyway. Best be quiet now, accept the change—morn comes tomorrow."

Thomas said nothing, his head sunk, his eyes staring at the cracked rocky ground. A line of small-leafed weeds ran along the edge of one of the stone blocks, tiny yellow flowers peeping through as if searching for the sun, long disappeared behind the enormous walls of the Glade.

"Chuck'll be a good fit for ya," Newt said. "Wee little fat shank, but nice sap when all's said and done. Stay here; I'll be back."

Newt had barely finished his sentence when a sudden, piercing scream ripped through the air. High and shrill, the barely human shriek echoed across the stone courtyard; every kid in sight turned to look toward the source. Thomas felt his blood turn to icy slush as he realized that the horrible sound came from the wooden building

Even Newt had jumped as if startled, his forehead creasing in concern.

"Shuck it," he said. "Can't the bloody Med-Jacks handle that boy for ten minutes without needin' my help?" He shook his head and touched Thomas's shoulder again. "Find Chuckie, tell him he's in charge of your sleepin' arrangements." And then he turned and headed in the direction of the building, running.

Thomas slid down the rough face of the tree until he sat on the ground again; he shrank back against the bark and closed his eyes, wishing he could wake up from this terrible, terrible dream.


	3. 3

Thomas sat there for several moments, too overwhelmed to move. He finally forced himself to look over at the haggard building. A group of boys milled around outside, glancing anxiously at the upper windows as if expecting a hideous beast to leap out in an explosion of glass and wood.

A metallic clicking sound from the branches above grabbed his attention, made him look up; a flash of silver and red light caught his eyes just before disappearing around the trunk to the other side. He scrambled to his feet and walked around the tree, craning his neck for a sign of whatever he'd heard, but he saw only bare branches, gray and brown, forking out like skeleton fingers—and looking just as alive.

"That was one of them beetle blades," someone said.

Thomas turned to his right to see a kid standing nearby, short and pudgy, staring at him. He was young—probably the youngest of any in the group he'd seen so far, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. His brown hair hung down over his ears and neck, scraping the tops of his shoulders. Pale blue eyes shone through an otherwise pitiful face, flabby and flushed.

Thomas nodded at him. "A beetle what?"

"Beetle blade," the boy said, pointing to the top of the tree. "Won't hurt ya unless you're stupid enough to touch one of them." He paused. "Shank." He didn't sound comfortable saying the last word, as if he hadn't quite grasped the slang of the Glade.

Another scream, this one long and nerve-grinding, tore through the air and Thomas's heart lurched. The fear was like icy dew on his skin. "What's going on over there?" he asked, pointing at the building.

"Don't know," the chubby boy replied; his voice still carried the high pitch of childhood. "Ben's in there, sicker than a dog. _They_ got him."

"They?" Thomas didn't like the malicious way the boy had said the word.

"Yeah."

"Who are _they?_ "

"Better hope you never find out," the kid answered, looking far too comfortable for the situation. He held out his hand. "My name is Chuck. I was the Greenbean until you showed up."

 _This is my guide for the night?_ Thomas thought. He couldn't shake his extreme discomfort, and now annoyance crept in as well. Nothing made since; his head hurt.

"Why is everyone calling me Greenbean?" he asked, shaking Chuck's hand quickly, then letting go.

"Cuz you're the Newbie." Chuck pointed at Thomas and laughed. Another scream came from the house, a sound like a starving animal being tortured.

"How can you be laughing?" Thomas asked, horrified by the noise. "It sounds like someone's dying in there."

"He'll be okay. No one dies if they make it back in time to get the serum. It's all or nothing. Dead or not dead. Just hurts a lot."

This gave Thomas pause. "What hurts a lot?"

Chuck's eyes wandered as if he wasn't sure what to say. "Um, gettin' stung by the Grievers."

"Grievers?" Thomas was only getting more and more confused. _Stung. Grievers._ The words had a heavy weight of dread to them, and he suddenly wasn't so sure he wanted to know what Chuck was talking about.

Chuck shrugged, then look away, eyes rolling.

Thomas sighed in frustration and leaned back against the tree. "Looks like you barely know more than I do," he said, but he knew it wasn't true. His memory loss was strange. He mostly remembered the workings of the world—but emptied of specifics, faces, names. Like a book completely intact but missing one word in every dozen, making it a miserable and confusing read. He didn't even know his age.

"Chuck… how old do you think I am?"

The boy scanned him up and down. "I'd say you're sixteen. And in case you were wandering, about five foot nine… brown hair, silver eyes. Oh and ugly as fried liver on a stick." He snorted a laugh.

Thomas was so stunned he'd barely heard the last part. Sixteen? He was _sixteen?_ He felt much older than that.

"Are you serious?" He paused, searching for words. "How…" He didn't even know what to ask.

"Don't worry. You'll be all whacked for days, but then you'll get used to this place. I have. We live here, this is it. Better than living in a pile of klunk." He squinted, maybe anticipating Thomas's question. " _Klunk's_ another word for poo. Poo makes a klunk sound when it falls in our pee pots."

Thomas looked at Chuck, unable to believe he was having this conversation. "That's nice," was all he could manage. He stood up and walked past Chuck toward the old building. _Shack_ was a better word for the place. It looked three or four stories high and about to fall down at any minute—a crazy assortment of logs and boards and thick twine and windows seemingly thrown together at random, the massive, ivy-strewn stone walls rising up behind it. As he moved across the courtyard, the distinct smell of firewood and some kind of meat cooking made Thomas feel better. Until he thought about what caused it…

"What's your name?" Chuck asked from behind, running to catch up.

"What?"

"Your _name?_ You still haven't told us—and I know you remember that much."

"Thomas." He barely heard himself say it—his thoughts had spun in a new direction. If Chuck was right, he'd just discovered a link to the rest of the boys. A common pattern to their memory loss. They all remembered their names. Why not their parents' names? Why not a friend's name? Why not their _last_ names?

"Nice to meet you meet you, Thomas," Chuck said. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you. I've been here a whole month, and I know the place inside and out. You can count on Chuck, okay?"

Thomas had almost reached the front door of the shack and the small group of boys congregating there when he was hit by a sudden and surprise rush of anger. He turned to face Chuck. "You can't even _tell_ me everything. I wouldn't call that taking care of me." He turned back toward the door, intent on going inside to find some answers. Where this sudden courage and resolve came from, he had no idea.

Cuck shrugged. "Nothin' I say'll do you any good," he said. "I'm basically still a Newbie, too. But I can be your friend—"

"I don't need friends," Thomas interrupted.

He'd reached the door, an ugly slab of sun-faded wood, and he pulled it open to see several stoic-faced boys standing at the foot of a c crooked staircase, the steps and railings twisted and angled in all directions. Dark wallpaper covered the walls of the foyer and hallway, half of it peeling off. The only decorations in sight were a dusty vase on a three legged table and a black and white picture of an ancient woman dressed in an old-fashioned white dress. It reminded Thomas of a haunted house from a movie or something. There even planks of wood missing from the floor.

The place reeked of dust and mildew—a big contrast to the pleasant smell outside. Flickering florescent lights shone from the ceiling. He hadn't thought of it yet, but he had to wander where the electricity came from in a place like the Glade. He stared at the old woman in the picture. Had she lived here once? Taken care of these people?

"Hey, look, it's the Greenbean," one of the older boys called out. With a start, Thomas realized it was the black-haired guy who'd given him the look of death earlier. He looked like he was fifteen or so, tall and skinny. His nose was the size of a small fist and resembled a deformed potato. "This shank probably klunked his pants when he heard old Benny baby scream like a girl. Need a new diaper?" _Need a new face?_ The words instantly popped into Thomas's mind and he almost voiced them without a skipping a beat. But the fact that the only knowledge he had of how he himself looked was Chuck's words stopped him. He was unsure if Chuck had been joking or not. For all he knew, he could be calling the kettle black. But he had to say something. He couldn't just walk away; he had to show this guy that him being new and confused, didn't make him pushover.

"My name is Thomas." He lathered the words with as much spite as he could. He had to get away from this guy. Without another word, he made for the stairs, only because they were close, only because he had no idea what to do or what else to say. But the bully stepped in front of him, holding a hand up.

"Hold on there, Greenie." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the upper floor. "Newbies aren't allowed to see someone who's been… _taken_." Newt and Alby won't permit it."

"What's your problem?" Thomas asked, successfully masking his fear with the same malice he had used before. He didn't want to think about what the kid had meant by taken. "I don't even know where I am. All I want is some answers."

"Listen to me, Greenbean." The boy wrinkled up his face, making it more gruesome than it already was, and folded his arms. "I've seen you before. Something's fishy about you showing up here, and I'm gonna find out what."

A surge of heat pulsed through Thomas's veins. "Look. I've never seen you before in my life." _Because I'm sure that even if I couldn't remember anything else,_ _I would remembered your wretched face._ "I have no idea who you are, and I couldn't care less," he spat. But really, how would he know? And how did this kid remember _him?_

The bully snickered, a short burst of laughter mixed with a phlegm-filled snort. Then his face grew serious, his eyebrows slanting inward. "I've… _seen_ you, shank. Not too many in these parts can say they've been stung." He pointed up the stairs. "I have. I know what Benny's going through. I've been there, and I saw _you_ during the Changing."

He reached out and poked Thomas in the chest with his index finger and Thomas had a sudden fiery impulse to break it, but he couldn't remember if he could fight or not and consequently didn't know if he could take this guy. And also, it _probably_ wouldn't do him any good to get into a scrap on his first day. "And I bet your first meal from Frypan that Benny'll say he's seen you too."

A grimace of passionate loathing plastered Thomas's face. He refused to break eye contact. Numerous retorts flashed through his mind, but he decided to say nothing, reminding himself that trouble would do him no good. And then, panic ate at him once again. Would things ever stop getting worse?

"Griever got ya wettin' yourself?" the boy sneered. His breath escaped just enough for Thomas to get a whiff, reminding him of some horrible memory that was just out of reach. It made his stomach turn. "A little scared now? Don't wanna get _stung_ , do ya?"

And that did it.

Thomas opened his mouth wide, taking a sharp breath, preparing to throw every insult he could think of at this kid—but he was cut short.

"You know what? You're right, Tommy," the boy said kindly with an abrupt smile that made no improvements on his face. His teeth matched his disgusting nose. Two or three were missing and not a single one approached anything _close_ to the color white. "I shouldn't be so mean to Newbies. Go on upstairs and I'm sure Alby and Newt will fill you in. Seriously. Go. I'm sorry." He politely stepped back, gesturing up the stairs. But Thomas knew the kid was up to something. Losing parts of his memory hadn't made Thomas an idiot.

"What's your name?" Thomas asked so he would have reference if he decided to go up after all. The boy's sudden lack of objection was making him think twice.

"Gally. And don't let anyone fool you. I'm the real leader here, not the two geezer shanks upstairs. Me. You can call me Captain Gally if you want."

"Okay," Thomas said, sick of the guy. "Captain Gally it is." He exaggerated a salute. "Oh. And do you guys have any toothbrushes around here?" he asked conversationally. "Or mints? Because that mouth of yours needs some serious attention." And Thomas turned to climb the stairs as Gally's face brightened red and hatred furrowed his brow, crinkling his monstrous nose. A few snickers escaped the small crowd behind him—jaws dropping. No one but Chuck, who stood by the door, shaking his head, made a move to stop Thomas.

"You're not supposed to," the younger boy said. He had stood so quietly, Thomas had forgotten he was there. "You're a newbie; you can't go up there."

"Go on," Gally sneered.

Thomas regretted coming inside in the first place… but he _did_ want to see that Newt guy.

His anger making him defiant, and feeling a little smug from telling the kid off, Thomas started up the stairs. Each step groaned and creaked under his weight; he might've stopped for fear of falling through the old wood if he weren't leaving such an awkward tense situation below. Up he went, wincing at every splintered sound. The stairs reached a landing, turned left, and then came upon a railed hallway leading to several rooms. Only one door had a light coming through the crack at the bottom.

"The Changing!" Gally shouted from. "Look forward to it shuck-face!"

As if the taunting gave him a sudden burst of courage, Thomas walked over to the lit door, ignoring the creaking floorboards and laughter downstairs—ignoring the onslaught of words he didn't understand, suppressing the dreadful feelings they induced. He reached down, turn the brass handle, and opened the door.

Inside the room, Newt and Alby crouched over someone lying on a bed.

Thomas leaned in closer to see what the fuss was all about, but when he got a clear look at the condition of the patient, his heart went cold. He had to fight the bile that surged in his throat.

The look was fast—only a few seconds—but it was enough to haunt him forever. A twisted, pale figure writhing in agony, chest bare and hideous. Tight, rigid cords of sickly green veins webbed across the boy's body and limbs, like ropes under his skin. Purplish bruises covered the kid, red hives, bloody scratches… His bloodshot eyes bulged, darting back and forth. The image had already burned into Thomas's mind before Alby jumped up, blocking the view but the moans and screams, pushing Thomas out of the , then slamming the door shut behind them.

"What're you doing up here, Greenie?" Alby yelled, his dark lips taught with anger, eyes on fire.

Thomas felt weak. "I… uh… wanted some answers," he murmured, but he couldn't put strength in his words—felt himself give up inside. What was wrong with that kid? Thomas slouched against the railing in the hallway and stared at the floor, not sure what to do next.

"Get your runt cheeks down those stairs, right now," Alby ordered. "Chuck'll help you. If I see you again before tomorrow morning, you ain't reachin' another one alive. I'll throw you off the cliff myself, you got me?"

Thomas was humiliated and scared. He felt like he'd been shrunk to the size of a small rat. Without saying a word, he pushed pass Alby and headed down the creaky steps, going as fast as he dared. Ignoring the gaping stares of everyone at the bottom—especially Gally—he walked out the door, pulling Chuck by the arm as he did so.

Thomas hated these people. He hated all of them. Except Chuck. And maybe Newt. "Get me away from these guys," Thomas said. He realized that Chuck might actually be his only friend in the world.

"Okay," Chuck replied, his voice chipper, as if thrilled to be needed. "But first we should get you some food from Frypan."

"I don't know if I can ever eat again." _Not after what I've just seen._

Chuck nodded. "Yeah, you will. I'll meet you at the same tree as before, Ten minutes."

Thomas was more than happy to get away from the house, and headed back toward the tree. He'd only known what it was like to be alive here for a short while and he already wanted it to end. He wished for all the world he could remember something about his previous life. Anything. His, mom, dad, a friend, his school, a hobby.

He blinked hard several times, trying to get the image of what he'd just seen in the back of his mind.

 _The Changing._ Gally had called it the Changing.

It wasn't cold, but Thomas shuddered once again.


	4. 4

Thomas leaned against the tree as he waited for Chuck. He scanned the compound of the Glade, this place of nightmares where he seemed destined to live. The shadows from the walls had lengthened considerably, already creeping up the sides of the ivy-colored stone faces on the other side.

At least this helped. Thomas knew directions—the wooden building crouched in the northwest corner, wedged in a darkening patch of shadow, the grove of trees in the southwest. The farm area, where a few workers were still picking their way through the fields, spread across the entire northeast quarter of the Glade. The animals were in the southeast corner, mooing and crowing and baying.

In the exact middle of the courtyard, the still-gaping hole of the box lay on, as if inviting him to jump back in and go home. Near that, maybe twenty feet to the south, stood a squat building made of rough concrete blocks, a menacing iron door its only entrance—there were no windows. A large round handle resembling a steel steering wheel marked the only way to open the door, just like something within a submarine. Despite what he'd just seen, Thomas didn't know which he felt more strongly—curiosity to know what was inside, or dread at finding out.

Thomas had just moved his attention to the four vast openings in the middle of the main walls of the Glade when Chuck arrived, a couple of sandwiched cradled in his arms, along with apples and two metals cups of water. The sense of relief that flooded through Thomas surprised him—he wasn't _completely_ alone in this place.

"Frypan wasn't too happy about me invading his kitchen before suppertime," Chuck said, sitting down next to the tree, motioning to Thomas to do the same. He did, grabbed the sandwich, but hesitated, the writhing, monstrous image of what he'd seen in the shack popping back in to his mind. Soon, though, hunger won out and he took a huge bite. The wonderful tastes of ham and cheese and mayonnaise filed his mouth.

"Ah, man," Thomas mumbled through a mouthful. "I was starving."

"Told ya." Chuck chomped into own sandwich.

After another couple of bites, Thomas finally asked the question that had been bothering him. "What's actually _wrong_ with that Ben guy? He doesn't even look human anymore."

Chuck glanced over at the house. "Don't really know," he muttered absently. "I didn't see him."

Thomas could tell the boy was being less than honest but decided against pressing him. "Well you don't want to see him. Trust me." He continued to eat, munching on the apples and sipping the water. He caught a glimpse of his reflection for the first time on the surface of the water in the cup. He tried to hold the cup steady but the image still wasn't very clear. However he could still see that his facial features were pretty much well proportioned. His face was not too thin, nor too long. He had a strong jawline. And if he strained he could see silver eyes staring back at him out from under lengthy eyelashes and thick masculine eyebrows.

Chuck had been joking. Thomas wasn't ugly. He was actually about as handsome as Alby or That Handsome Asian Guy. Thinking of them clouded his brain with the few memories he had—of the wave of emotion he had felt for the Asian, of how Thomas had seemed to like Newt touching him, how he would like for Newt to touch him some more… The thought made Thomas's heart thump. And another question that had been bothering him seeped to the front of his mind. But he didn't know how to ask it. And especially not to a _twelve_ year old.

"There are no girls here." Thomas settled with that. Maybe Chuck would catch where he was going.

"You're a genius for figuring that one out," Chuck stated with a smirk, munching on his third apple. Thomas ignored the jibe and hesitated, trying to find the correct way to phrase what he wanted to ask.

"So… what do the older guys do?" _What does Newt do?_

"What do you mean?" Chuck asked, looking up at Thomas with what was clearly genuine confusion.

"I mean when they get—I'm sure that they get tired of—I mean do they ever… you know… _do_ things… with—" _each other?_ But he found that he couldn't ask it. And Chuck simply sat there looking oblivious, staring at Thomas like the spluttering idiot he was.

Thomas felt the blood rushing to his face, as looked around searching for a change of subject. "What's out there?" he asked, pointing toward the huge gaps in the walls. "Is this part of a huge castle or something?"

Chuck hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "Um, I've never been outside the Glade."

Thomas paused, and looked at the boy who was averting Thomas's gaze. "You're hiding something," he finally replied, finishing off his last bite and taking a long swig of water. The frustration at getting no answers from anyone was beginning to aggravate him. It only made it worse to think that even if he _did_ get answers, he wouldn't know if he'd be getting the truth. "Why are you guys so secretive?"

"That's just the way it is. Things are really weird around here, and most of us don't know everything. _Half_ of everything."

It bothered Thomas that Chuck didn't seem to care about what he'd just said. That he seemed indifferent to having his life taken away from him. What was wrong with these people? Thomas got to his feet and stated walking toward the eastern opening. "Well, no one said I couldn't look around." He needed to learn something or he was going to lose his mind.

"Whoa, wait!" Chuck cried, running to catch up. "Be careful, those puppies are about to close." He already sounded out of breath.

"Close?" Thomas repeated. "What are talking about?"

"The doors, shank."

"Doors?" He didn't see any doors, but knew that Chuck wasn't just making stuff up—he knew he was missing something obvious. He grew uneasy and realized he'd slowed his pace, not so eager to reach the walls anymore.

"What do you call these big opening?" Chuck pointes to the enormously tall gaps in the walls.

"I'd call them _big openings_ ," Thomas said, failing to conceal his discomfort with sarcasm.

"Well they're _doors_ ," And they close every night."

Thomas stopped, thinking Chuck had to have said something wrong. He looked up, looking side to side, examined the massive slabs of stone as the uneasy feeling blossomed into outright dread. "What do you mean they close?"

"Just see for yourself in a minute. The Runners'll be back soon; then the walls are going to move until the gaps are closed." Thomas's dread changed to denial.

"You're jacked," Thomas muttered. He couldn't see how mammoth walls could be mobile—felt so sure of it he relaxed. _Chuck is simply playing a trick on me._

They reached the huge split that led outside to more stone pathways. Thomas gaped, his mind emptying of thought as he saw it firsthand.

"This is the East Door," Chuck said, as if proudly revealing a piece of art he'd created.

Thomas barely heard him, shocked by how much bigger it was up close. At least twenty feet across, the break in the wall went all the way to the top, far above. On the left side of the door, deeps holes several inches in diameter, spaced a foot apart were bored in to the rock, beginning near the ground and continuing all the way up.

On the right side of the door, foot long rods jutted out from the wall edge, also several inches in diameter, in the same pattern as thee holes facing them on the other side. The purpose was obvious.

"Are you kidding me?" Thomas asked no one. "You weren't joking. The walls really _move?_ "

"What else would I have meant?

Thomas had a hard time wrapping his mind around the possibility. "I don't know. I figured there was a door that swung shut or a little mini-wall slid out of bigger one. How could these walls move? They're huge and they look like they've been standing here for thousands of years." And the idea of those walls closing and trapping him inside this place was downright terrifying.

Chuck threw his arms up, clearly frustrated "I don't know, they just move. Makes one heck of a grinding noise. Same thing happens in the Maze—those shift every night too."

Thomas's attention was suddenly snatched by new details. He turned to face the younger boy. "What did you say?"

Chuck's face reddened as he realized he'd said something he shouldn't have.

"You called it a maze—you said same thing happens out in the _maze_."

"I'm done with you. I'm done." He walked back toward the tree they'd just left.

Thomas ignored him. A maze? In front of him, through the East Door, he could make out passages leading to the left, to right, and straight ahead. And the walls of the corridors were similar to those that surrounded the Glade, the ground made of the same massive stone blocks as in the courtyard. In the distance more breaks in the walls, and the straight passage came to a dead end.

"Looks like a maze," Thomas whispered, almost laughing to himself. As if things couldn't have gotten any stranger. They'd wiped his memory and put him inside a gigantic maze. It was all so crazy that it just seemed _funny_.

His heart skipped a beat when a boy unexpectedly appeared around a corner up ahead, entering the main passage from one of the offshoots to the right, running toward him and the Glade. Covered in sweat, his face red, clothes sticking to his body, the boy didn't slow, hardly glancing at Thomas as he went pass. He ran straight for the squat concrete building located near the Box.

Thomas turned as he passed, his eyes riveted to the exhausted runner, unsure why this new development surprised him so much. Why _wouldn't_ people go out and search the maze? Then he realized others were entering through the remaining three Glade openings, all of them running and looking as ragged as the next one. There couldn't be much good about the maze if these guys came back looking so weary and worn.

He watched, curious, as they all met at the big iron door of the small building. Chuck had said something about runners earlier. What had they been doing out there?

One of the boys popped the big door open and with a deafening squeal of metal, he pulled it open wide. They disappeared inside pulling the door shut, behind them.

And then a loud boom exploded through the air, making Thomas jump. It was followed by a horrible crunching, grinding sound. It felt as if the whole earth shook; he stumbled and fell to his knees. The walls were closing.


	5. 5

Chuck and Thomas wound up near the back of the Homestead—that was what Chuck called the structure of wood and windows—in a dark shadow between the building and the stone wall behind it.

"Where are we going?" Thomas asked, still feeling the weight of seeing those walls close, thinking about the maze, the confusion, the fear. He told himself to stop or he'd drive himself crazy. Trying to grasp a sense of normalcy, he made a weak attempt at a joke. "If you're looking for a goodnight kiss, forget it."

Chuck didn't miss a beat. "Just shut up and stay close."

Thomas let out a big breath and shrugged before following the younger boy along the back of the building. He couldn't help but think that it would be nice to have a goodnight kiss from Newt… He shook his head, attempting to get rid it of those thoughts. Those emotion would completely leave him whenever something confusing or frightening happened, and then come crashing back as strong as ever later. It was disorienting.

They tiptoed until they came upon a small, dusty window, a soft beam of light shining through onto the stone and ivy. Thomas heard someone moving around inside.

"The bathroom," Chuck whispered.

"So?" A thread of unease stitched along Thomas's skin.

"I love doing this to people. Give me great pleasure before bedtime."

"Doing what?" Something told Thomas that Chuck was up to no good. "Maybe I should—"

"Just shut up and watch." Chuck quietly stepped up onto a big wooden box that sat right under the window. He crouched so that his head was positioned just below where the person on the inside would be able to see him. Then he reached up with hand and lightly tapped on the glass.

"This is stupid." There couldn't be a worse time to play a joke—Newt or Alby could be in there. _Wanking_. Interrupting would probably get him into more trouble than fighting with Gally would have. "I don't want to any trouble! I just got here!" he whispered as the thought of Newt wanking flashed through his mind and he found that he liked it immensely.

Chuck suppressed a laugh by putting his hand over his mouth and Thomas jumped to hide, pressing himself against the back of the building as hard as he could. He just couldn't believe he'd been suckered into playing a practical joke on someone. The angle of vision from the window protected him for the moment, but he knew that he and Chuck would be seen if whoever was in there pushed his head outside to get a better look. _Please don't let it be Alby._

"Who's that?!" yelled the boy from the bathroom, his voice laced with anger. Thomas was little relieved to hear that the voice carried no accent, therefore it wasn't Newt. But immediately afterwards he took a sharp gasp. He _did_ recognize it.

Without warning, Chuck suddenly popped his head up toward the window and screamed at the top of his lungs. A loud crash from inside and Thomas heard the bathroom door burst open. "I'm gonna kill you, shuck-face!" But Chuck was already running toward the open Glade. Thomas froze, feeling a mixture of horror and embarrassment. He was momentarily terrified to move, but finally breaking out of his daze, he took off after his new—and only—friend.

He'd just rounded the corner when Gally came screaming out the Homestead, looking murderous.

He instantly pointed at Thomas. "You!" he yelled. Thomas's heart sank. Everything seemed to indicate that this just might be his demise. "I wasn't me, I swear," hands raised in surrender. And again he realized that he couldn't remember if he could fight or not, but in this situation Thomas had to seriously consider it. Gally wasn't that big. Maybe Thomas could take him if he had to. He cracked his neck in preparation.

"If it wasn't you," Gally growled, ambling up to posture right in front of Thomas, "how do know there was something you didn't do?"

Thomas didn't say anything. He was definitely uncomfortable but not nearly as scared as he had been a few moment earlier, although he still considered ratting Chuck out. But then he second thought it. Had it been Newt, he would have blabbed and spluttered his apologies. But this was Gally and Thomas discovered that he _honestly didn't care._

"I'm not a dong, Greenie," Gally spat. "I saw Chuck's fat face in the window. But you better decide who you want as your friends and enemies. One more trick like that—I don't care if it's your sissy idea or not—there will be blood." And Gally turned a stormed away. Thomas watched as he disappeared back into the Homestead, and was surprised by how much he truly hated that guy. He really, _really_ hated him. It was such a passionate hatred, Thomas could imagine himself celebrating over the boy's death.

Thomas turned to find Chuck standing there, staring at ground, clearly embarrassed. "Thanks a lot, _buddy_." He stared down at him.

"Sorry. Had I known it known it was Gally, I never would've done it; I swear." But all in all, after it was over, the whole thing was pretty funny. And Thomas couldn't help laughing. An hour ago, he thought he'd never hear such a sound come from himself. Watching Thomas, Chuck broke into a grin as well, and Thomas found it hard to remain angry at the kid.

"Don't be sorry," he said shaking his head. "The shank deserved it, and I don't even know what a shank is. That was awesome." He smiled feeling much better.

A couple of hours later, Thomas was lying in a soft sleeping bag neck to Chuck on a bed of grass near the gardens. It was a wide lawn that he hadn't noticed before, and quite a few of the group chose it as there bedtime spot. Thomas thought that strange, but apparently there wasn't enough room in the Homestead. At least it was warm. Which made him wonder for the millionth time where they were.

His mind had a hard time grasping names of places, or remembering countries or rulers, how the world was organized. And none of the kids in the Glade had a clue either—at least they weren't sharing if they did.

He lay there in silence for a long time, looking up at the stars and listening to the soft murmurs of various conversations drifting across the Glade. Sleep felt miles away, but a few more minutes passed and Thomas felt the long day catch up with him, the leaded edge of sleep crossing over his mind. But—like a fit shoved it in his brain and let go—a thought popped into his head, one that he didn't expect and he wasn't sure from where it came.

Suddenly the Glade and everything around it seeded familiar. Comfortable. A warming calmness spread through his chest, and for the first time since he'd found himself there, he didn't feel like the Glade was the worst place in the universe.

And not quite understanding it, a feelin—an epiphany—rolled over him.

"I want to be one of the guy that go out there," he said to Chuck, not knowing if he was still awake or not.

"Huh?" was Chuck's response.

"A runner. I want to be one. Whatever they're doing out there, I want in." He wished he knew where this urge had come from.

"You don't even know what you're talking about. Go to sleep," Chuck grumbled.

Thomas felt a surge of confidence, even though Chuck was right. He _didn't_ know what he was talking about.

"Something just… feels familiar." And it hit him. _I think I've been here before._ And worried that he would ruin his new sense of encouragement he fell silent.

Sleep came much more easily than he'd expected.

ooo

He dreamt he was alone, wandering through the forest of the Glade. Going nowhere in particular. Just wandering. Sunlight filtered down through the leaves of the trees, the dead ones crunching under his feet. The birds were chirping and the sound of running water came from somewhere. He couldn't help admiring the beauty of the place.

"What are you doing in here, Thomas?" Thomas instantly recognized the accent, and he simply loved the way his name sounded coated with it. He felt his body heat up and hit heart flutter as he turned to see Newt strolling over to him. Thomas smiled.

"I told you you'd be happy," Newt said as he reached Thomas, placing his palm on his shoulder. Thomas closed his eyes with a sigh and placed his hands on top of Newt's. "I know that I've been a lot happier since you arrived here." Newt's hand slid out from under Thomas's and fell down to Thomas's waist, as his other one went to Thomas other side, and pulled Thomas close, their body's touching. Thomas slowly wrapped his arms under the taller boy's, wrapped them to grasp the back of Newt's shoulders, pulling him even closer.

Thomas found it difficult to inhale. He could feel Newt's warm breath on his neck wished fervently that he would put his lips on it.

And someone shook Thomas awake.


	6. 6

His eyes snapped open to see a too-close face staring down at him. Everything around them still shadowed by the darkness of early morning. Thomas opened his mouth to tell the guy off for waking him and interrupting his dream, but a cold hand clamped own it, gripping his shut. Panic flared.

"Shh, Greenie. Don't want to be wakin' up Chuckie, now, do we?" Thomas had to force himself not to sigh into the boy's hand, as he relaxed. Newt. He couldn't help feeling calm in the Newt's presence. The dream he had just had flashed through his mind and his face flooded with blood. He thought he saw Newt frown at his blush but wasn't sure, the expression left his face too quickly. And then Thomas was filled with curiosity. What did the boy want with him? Doing his best to say yes with his eyes, Thomas nodded, until Newt took his hand away, then leaned back on his heels.

"Come on, Greenie. Suppose to show ya something before the wake-up." Newt stood, and reached down to help Thomas to his feet. For a split second Thomas didn't want to move, sure that Newt would notice the erection the dream had left him with, but he could feel how the jeans he wore kept it pressed firmly against his leg. He took Newt's hand, happy for a reason to touch him. Newt was strong; it felt like he could break Thomas.

Any lingering haze of sleep had already vanished from Thomas's mind. "Okay," he said, simply, ready to follow. Thomas was surprised that he felt no suspicion. He would probably follow Newt anywhere. Looking at him Thomas forced himself not to smile. But Newt smiled at him and Thomas was pleased to smile in return. He leaned over and slipped on his shoes. "Where are we going?"

"Just follow me and stay close."

As they snuck they're way through the tightly strewn pack of sleeping bodies, Thomas couldn't stop the dream from seeping back through his mind, couldn't stop himself from thinking about the way Newt had held him and that wasn't helping get rid of his erection. He had been thrown into a maze with a wiped memory and _that_ was his first dream. Thomas thought there was something fundamentally wrong with him.

After almost tripping over someone in his reverie, Thomas focused more on where he was going, but was soon distracted yet again when his eyes found Newt's backside in front of him. Thomas watched it as the boy walked. It looked so firm through his jeans—Thomas stepped on someone's hand, earning a sharp cry of pain in return and a punch on the calf.

"Sorry," he whispered, receiving a dirty look from Newt.

Once they left the lawn area and stepped onto the hard gray stone of the courtyard floor, Newt broke into a run, headed for the western wall. Thomas watched the way his muscled tightened and caught a glimpse of the boy's tight back as his T-shirt slipped up. Thomas's erection tightened in his jeans. He shook his head. He needed to _focus_. He hurried to catch up.

The light was dim, but any obstructions loomed as darker shadows and he was able to make his way quickly along. He stopped when Newt did, right next to the massive wall towering above them like a skyscraper.—another random image that flooded in the murky pool of his memory. Thomas noticed small red lights flashing here and there along the wall's face, moving about, stopping.

"What are those?" he whispered as loudly as he dared, wondering if his voice sounded as shaky as he felt. The twinkling red glow of lights held an undercurrent of warning.

Newt stood just a couple of feet in front of the thick curtain of ivy on the wall. "When you bloody need to know, you'll know."

"Well it's kind of stupid to bring me over here and not answer my question." Thomas paused, surprised at himself. " _Shank_ ," he added, throwing all the sarcasm he could into the syllable.

Newt broke out in a laugh. "I like you, Greenie." Thomas smiled at that, although he was sure Newt didn't mean like in the way Thomas liked him. "Now shut it and let me show ya something."

Newt stepped forward and dug his hands into the ivy, spreading several vines away from the wall to reveal a dust frosted window, square about two feet wind. It was dark at the moment as if it had been painted black. He waved Thomas over look through the window with him. Thomas stepped forward. They had to put their head inches apart, almost ear to ear, for them both to see. Thomas found is hard to focus. His heart fluttered as he fought to breathe normally.

"What are we looking for?" he ask in an attempt to distract himself from the wonderful heat he felt radiating between them.

"Hold your undies, mate. One'll be comin' before long."

A minute passed, two, then several more. Thomas fidgeted on his feet, wondering how Newt could stand there, perfectly still and patient staring into nothing but darkness.

Then it changed.

Glimmers of an eerie light shone through the window; it cast a wavering spectrum of colors on Newt's face, as if he stood next to a lighted swimming pool. For a moment Thomas fought with the curiosity to peep through the window and the desire to stare at Newt colored face, because at that moment, Thomas thought he was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Before Thomas could decide, curiosity or desire, Newt's glanced over and caught Thomas's eyes staring at him. He smiled a light smile and pointed at the window. Thomas averted his gaze and grew perfectly still, squinting, trying to make out what was on the other side. A thick lump grew in his throat. What was that?

"Out there's the maze," Newt whispered, eyes wide as if in a trance. "Everything we do—our whole life—revolves around the maze. Every bloody second of every bloody day we spend in honor of the maze, tryin' desperately to solve somethin' that's not shown us it has a bloody solution. I want to show you why it's not to be messed with."

Thomas leaned forward until his nose touched the cool surface of the glass. It took a second for his eyes to focus on the moving object on the other side, to look past the grime and dust and see what Newt wanted him to see. And when he did, he felt his breath catch in throat like an icy wind had blown down there and frozen the air solid.

A large, bulbous creature the size of a cow but with no distinct shape twisted and seethed along the ground in the corridor outside. It was too dark to make out clearly, but odd lights flashed from an unknown source, revealing blurs of silver spikes and glistening flesh. Wicked instrument-tipped appendages protruded from its body like arm: a saw blade, a set of shears, long rods whose purpose could only be guessed.

The creature was a horrific mix of animal and machine, and seemed to realize it was being observed, seemed to know what lay inside the walls of the Glade, seemed to want to get in. It climbed the opposite wall, then leapt at the thick-glassed window, making Thomas shriek before he could stop himself. He jerked away from the window—but the thing bounced back, leaving the glass undamaged.

Thomas sucked in two huge breaths, his heart thumping, and noticed that Newt had not flinched. "What is that thing?" His voice surprised him by coming out in a frightened whisper instead of a terrified scream.

"That thing is the reason the walls shut every night. That thing is why you bloody well never want to catch yourself out there when they've closed. _That thing_ is a Griever It's what we call 'em." Newt turned away from the window. "Well. Now you know what lurks in the maze. You've been sent to the Glade, Greenie, and we'll be expecting ya to survive and help us do what we've been sent here to do."

"And what's that?"

The first traces of dawn had crept over Newt's face and Thomas could see every detail. "Find our bloody way out."

Thomas swallowed, wandering how he could ever get out there. His desire to become a Runner _ridiculously_ not been sedated. He had to do it. Somehow he knew he had to. It was such an odd thing to feel, especially after what he'd just seen.

Then he frowned, his heart still pounding. Why hadn't Alby shown him this? Wasn't he the leader? Newt was _clearly_ something like second-in-command, but if Alby felt that he himself had to give Thomas the Tour around the Glade today, _surely_ he would feel that something of this nature should be adorned with his presence? Thomas wasn't complaining. He definitely preferred Newt over Alby. But he was still—an emotion that seemed like it would never leave with all recent events considered—curious.

"Alby didn't tell you show me this, did he?" Thomas asked. It wasn't an accusation, simply a question. Newt's eyes widened.

"How did you bloody guess that?" he asked, clearly shocked.

Thomas shrugged. "Well partly because earlier, you said ' _I_ want to show you' not Alby, or we."

Newt smiled at him. "Clever, you are. Alby wasn't going to show you that until tomorrow night. Let you get the feel of the place. But I felt like you could handle it." His face reddened as glanced down. "Like I said before, I like you, Greenie." And this time, Thomas wasn't so sure what he meant by that word.

"My name is Thomas," he said kindly, as if the two of them were back at the Box where Thomas had come out yesterday, and he was saying this to Newt like he should've said it then, after Newt's polite introduction.

Newt look up, and sent Thomas a warm smile. "Then Thomas it is. Come on. Let's go catch these last few hours of sleep. We start our days out early around here, and you've got a shuck of one ahead of you."

"I'm actually wide awake after that," Thomas responded truthfully, strolling alongside Newt.

"Really?" Newt smiled. "Well come on. There's something else I want to show you." And feeling that this showing wouldn't frighten him, Thomas smiled back and followed Newt.

They walked at a leisurely pace, going around the sleeping boys this time. Thomas fought the strong urge to ask where they were going, and just waited to see. He did however seize this moment to ask some questions.

"How long have you been here?"

"A while," Newt answered. And Thomas frowned, but Newt only smiled, his face clearly saying that was the only answer Thomas would get.

"Okay," Thomas said as they made their way toward the woods of the Glade and Thomas found it a little more difficult not to ask where they were going, but he managed. Dawn continued to creep in, the sky brightening a little more as they passed a couple of benches and the few sickly trees, entering the woods now, and continued along their way. Newt lead walking as if he were merely headed down the street to the local corner store instead of into a mass of identical trees. From the Glade proper, the forest didn't look that big, maybe a couple of acres. Yet the trees were tall with sturdy trunks. Light twinkled down, between the leaves giving the air around him a greenish, muted hue, as if only several minutes of twilight remained in the day.

It was beautiful.

"Exactly how _big_ is the maze?" Thomas asked.

"Large," Newt stated. Thomas frowned again and Newt's smiled widened, as if he found Thomas's frustration amusing.

"You're not going to answer me properly, are you?"

"You'll get all the answers and then some in time. Just be patient, Tommy."

Thomas could no longer see the field behind them. There were trees all around. They walked a bit more in silence, a thick bed of leaves and fallen twigs crunching beneath their feet, until Newt stopped at the base of a short, broad tree. It was shorter than the Homestead, but the branches spread out almost as wide as the Homestead, the trunk thicker than Newt and Thomas put together. Nailed into tree horizontally, were mismatched, short planks of wood, creating a ladder up the tree trunk. Some of them looked like they may have fallen off the Homestead. Newt climbed.

"Come on." And Thomas followed without hesitation. Up and up they went until they reached three decently spaced and level branches that had similar planks nailed and tied to them with brown rope. It created a platform large enough for maybe three teenagers to lie on side by side without risk of anyone falling off. Newt stepped over in the middle and sprawled out across it on his stomach, crossing his ankles in the air and patting the wood next to him, a gesture for Thomas to do the same. Thomas crawled on, a little hesitantly, and Newt smiled at him.

"Don't worry. I built this m'self. S'not goin' anywhere. If not for fear of hittin' your head on one of those lower branches up there," he said pointing, "you could jump up and down on here and it'll hold fast. Trust me. I crouched and tested it." Feeling only a little comforted, Thomas laid himself down, right next to Newt, putting a good three feet between himself and the edge. He and Newt were so close their arms touched. A part of Thomas couldn't believe that he was lying here next to him.

They laid there silent for moment. Thomas looked around, smiling. There was a bird's nest in one of the nearby branches, and although it was empty and he could see no birds, he could heard them chirping. He thought that he would have a view of the glade from up here but he could only see the leaves of the tree they were in. They were surrounded by them with branches protruding here and there as if they were in green-walled room.

"I built this a couple months after I got here, a place for me to run away and hide. Cry." Newt told Thomas. "Now I just come here when I need some peace and quiet, although during midday you can still hear the noise from Glade sometimes. No one knows it's here. Well, except Alby. I can't hide anything from him." He smiled at Thomas again, and Thomas's heart began to flutter. "But you're the first person I've brought up here." He fell silent again, his chin propped on his fists, and his elbows rested on the wood.

Thomas felt like he should say something, but he didn't know what, is was as if being here stole him of words. As if reading his mind, Newt looked at him. "You're quiet, Tommy. First time I've seen you like this," he joked.

"I don't know what to say," Thomas admitted. "It's nice up here. Sitting in a tree house like seven years olds." Newt smiled and laughed. "I'm glad you showed me," Thomas added honestly. He looked over at Newt and they caught each other's eye. Newt's smile faded and Thomas felt his slipping from his face for the first time since he'd lied down. The temperature shifted from light and casual to serious and tense like the flip of a switch.

Thomas kept his eyes steady. He would not look away first, be the one to ruin this moment. Newt's eyes flashed down to Thomas's lips and back up, so quickly Thomas only just saw. He couldn't breathe properly. Newt leaned in, stopping to gauge Thomas's reaction, then he came in and their lips touched.

And Thomas instantly knew, even with his memory wipe, he was resolutely confident with himself. Had there been _any_ doubt, it was now gone, because Thomas thought that this was heaven.

He sighed into Newt's mouth as he moved his lips, returning the kiss feverishly, and Newt's tongue in and they found each other. He rolled onto his back, pulling Thomas on top of him, spreading his legs for Thomas to lie between them. Thomas's hands were on either side of Newt's head and Newt's hands were on his waste. Thomas kissed and _kissed_ , their tongues were playing, until he had to pull away and breathe, but as soon as their lips parted, Newt wrapped his hands around Thomas's shoulder just as Thomas had done Newt in his dream and pulled Thomas down to him, so the he could plant kisses and lick along Thomas's collarbone. Thomas subconsciously tilted his head sideways to permit it.

He loved the way Newt held him, placing light squeezes up and down his side. Strong and firm yet somehow gentle and calm. Thomas didn't know when, but he had begun to grind his hips into Newt's. He could feel their erections pressing against each other through their jeans and found that he simply _loved_ it. Everything about this moment was even _more_ magnificent because he knew that these feelings and touches existed but couldn't remember experiencing them.

Thomas gasped, as his heart skipped several beats. He couldn't remember how he had landed in this wonderful situation at the moment either but he didn't care. Newt's hands had found their way under Thomas's shirt and Thomas felt his palms caress his skin. Goosebumps broke out all over him. He gave involuntary pleasurable twitch. Thomas was going to hyperventilate.

"Wait, wait—wait…" He gulped in deeps breaths. He looked down at Newt, as the boy complied. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

Newt blushed, and shrugged under Thomas. "Minho and I may have fooled around a few times before. Nothin' serious."

"Minho?"

"Right. You haven't met him. Broad guy. Thick. Asian." Thomas made a mental gasp—That Handsome Asian Guy! Thomas found it harder to control his breathing while thinking about him. But wait. How could he feel that way about That Handsome Asian Guy—Minho—when he was lying here with Newt? These feelings were confusing.

Newt glanced at his digital watch. "We should start makin' our way back," he said. "The guys'll be gettin' up for breakfast soon." Thomas took a cue and crawled off after planting one more, quick kiss on Newt's lips, receiving a smile in return. Newt started down the ladder with Thomas in tow.

ooo

About an hour later the doors having reopened, rumbling and grumbling and shaking the ground until they were finished, Thomas sat at a worn, tilted picnic table outside the Homestead. All he could think about was Newt and the tree, how glorious it had been, if and when they would be able to do it again.

Chuck ate silently next to him. The poor guy had exhausted himself trying to make conversation with Thomas, who'd refused to respond. He wanted _nothing_ to distract him from his memories of the tree.

But somehow That Handsome Asi—Minho, slipped into his thoughts as well. _Why?_ Thomas hadn't even spoken to him. And the guy seemed a little defensive from what Thomas could recall. He didn't look like the type of dude you would find huddled up making out with another guy. Yet Thomas still sat there imagining himself kissing Minho… But kissing Newt… And Thomas was confused all over again. Then everything _else_ he was confused about seeped into his brain.

Where was he? Why was he here? How could a maze, with walls so massive and tall, be so big that dozens of kids hadn't been able to solve it after who knows how long trying? How could such a structure exist? And more importantly—why?

And what was the purpose of the Grievers? What did they do out there at night? What would be like to be attacked by something so terrible? And what was this desire to become Runner? Even after witnessing the Grievers?

A tap on his shoulder jarred him from his thoughts; he looked up to see Alby standing behind him.

"Well ain't you lookin' fresh," Alby said. "Get a nice view out the window this morning?"

Thomas tried and succeeded at concealing his shock and looking confused. "What are you talking about?" he asked, not wanting to betray Newt.

"Come off it, Greenie," Alby said. And for the first time, Thomas saw him smile. "I know Newt showed you. Kid can't hide _anything_ from me," Alby winked at Thomas as he put emphasis on the word. _Newt told him_ , Thomas thought as blood rushed to his face. "Slim it, kid," he laughed as his eyes found Newt, munching over at a nearby table… "You guys are okay. I won't tell a soul. And don't worry. He's not in trouble for showing you. He's always running around here doing whatever he wants to." Alby glanced at Thomas. "And he's the only one who gets away with it, hear? Don't let Gally fool you." Alby said, his stern expression returning. And Thomas nodded. "Alright. Me and you, shank. The Tour begins now." He gestured for Thomas to follow as he turned to walk away and Thomas stood, heading after him. "But no questions till the end," Alby said with an abrupt halt. "Ain't got time to jaw with you all day."

"But…" Thomas stopped when Alby's eyebrows shot up. He wanted to avoid provoking the temper he'd seen flare in this guy the day before. "But tell me everything," Thomas said, his curiosity replacing his time with Newt as the main focus in his mind. And he also decided then not to tell anyone how strangely familiar the place seemed, the odd feeling that he'd been there before—that he could remember things about it. Sharing that seem like a very bad idea.

"I'll tell ya what I want to tell ya, Greenie. Let's go," Alby said, all traces of the light and smiling person he had been just _moments_ before gone. Thomas was finding it hard to believe that he would keep quiet about him and Newt now.

"Can I come?" Chuck asked from the table.

Alby reached down and playfully tweaked the boy's ear. "Ain't you got a job slinthead? Lots of sloppin' to do? " Alby asked, his smile returning. Did this guy have a mood disorder? He was confusing just like everything about this place.

"Chuck rolled his eyes. "Have fun."

"I'll try." And he walked away with Alby, hoping the Tour had officially begun.


	7. 7

They started at the Box, which was closed at the moment—double doors of metal lying flat on the ground, covered in white paint, faded and cracked. The day had brightened considerably, the shadows stretching in the opposite direction from what Thomas had seen yesterday. However he still hadn't spotted the sun, though it looked like it was about to pop over the eastern wall at any minute.

Alby pointed at the doors. "This here is the Box. Once a month, we get a Newbie like you, never fails. Once a week, we get supplies, clothes, some food. Ain't needin' a lot—pretty much run ourselves in the Glade We got all the electricity we need, grow our own food. The Box is mostly for getting clothes and such."

Thomas nodded, his whole body itching with the desire to ask questions. _I need some tape to put over my mouth._

"We don't know jack about the Box," Alby continued. "Where it comes from, how it gets here, who's in charge— _we don't know_. The shanks that sent us here ain't told us nothin'. Tried to send a Greenie back in the box one time, but the thing wouldn't leave till we took him out."

"Thomas wondered what lay under the doors when the Box wasn't there, but held his tongue. He felt such a mixture of emotions—curiosity, frustration, annoyance— all laced with the lingering horror of seeing the Griever that morning and the tingling pleasure of being with Newt.

Alby's kept talking, never bothering to look Thomas in the eye. "Glade's cut into four sections." He held up his fingers, flipping them away as he counted off the next words. "Gardens, Blood House, Homestead, Deadheads. Yeah?"

Thomas hesitated, then shook his head confused. Deadheads?

Alby sighed and looked as if he could of a thousand things he could be doing right then. He pointed to the northeast corner where the fields and fruit trees were located. "Gardens—where we grow the crops. Water's pumped in through pipes in the grounds—always has been, or we've dehydrated a long time ago. Never rains here. Ever." He pointed to the southeast corner, at the animal pens and barn. "Blood House—where we raise and slaughter animals." He pointed at the pitiful living quarters. "Homestead—stupid place is twice as big as when the first of us got here because we keep addin' to it when they send us wood and klunk. Ain't pretty, but it works. Most of us sleep outside anyway."

Thomas felt dizzy. So many questions splintered his mind he couldn't keep them straight.

Alby pointed to the southwest corner, the small forest he and Newt recently occupied. Thomas wondered if Alby knew everything. How much had Newt told him? Did he know that's where they were? Did he know that they had shared more than couple of kisses? Did he how tightly Newt had held him? But from the bored expression on Alby face, you wouldn't believe that Newt had told him anything.

"We call that, the Deadheads. Graveyards in the back corner, in the thicker woods. Ain't much else. You can go there to sit and rest, hangout," he looked over at Thomas giving him a sly smile and shrug, "or whatever," he finished. Yes he knew that's where they were. He cleared, his throat and his ever present frown returning. "You'll spend the next two weeks working one day apiece for our different job Keepers—until we know what you're best at. Slopper, Bricknick, Bagger, Track-hoe—somethin'll stick, always does. Come on."

"Alby walked toward the South Door, located between what he'd called the Deadheads and the Blood House. Thomas followed, wrinkling his nose up at the sudden smell of dirt and manure coming from the animal pens.

Several cows nibbled and chewed at a trough full of greenish hay. Pigs lounged in a muddy pit, an occasionally flickering tail the only sign they were alive. Another pen held sheep, and there were chicken coops and turkey cages as well. Workers bustled about the area, looking as if they'd spent their whole lives on a farm.

Why did Thomas remember those animals? Nothing about them seemed new or interesting. He knew what they were called, what the normally ate, what they looked like… Why was stuff like that still lodged in his memory, but not where he'd seen the animals before or with whom? His memory loss was baffling.

Alby pointed to the large barn in the back corner, its red paint long faded to a dust rust color. "Back there's where the Slicers work. Nasty stuff, that is," he said, looking as if he'd stepped in something foul. "If you don't mind blood, guts, and animal fluids, you can be a Slicer."

Thomas shook his head. Slicer didn't sound good at all. As they kept walking, he focused his attention on the other side of the Glade, the section where he and Newt had gone, what Alby had called the Deadheads. And looking at them from the outside Thomas could see that the trees grew thicker and denser the further back into the corner they went, more alive and full of leaves. Thomas looked up, squinting and finally found the sun. It looked odd—more orange than it should be. And this was another example of his odd selective memory. How did he know what color the sun was supposed to be?

Alby stopped walking, and Thomas found himself standing before the South Door; the two walls bracketing the exit toward above them. Thomas craned his neck to see the top of the walls far above; his mind spun with the odd sensation that he was looking down not up. He staggered back, once again in awe by the structure of his new home.

"Out there's the maze," Alby said, recuperating Thomas's attention. Then he paused. Thomas stared through the gap. The corridors out there looked much the same as the he'd seen from the window by the East Door early that morning. This thought gave him a chill, made him wonder if a Griever might come charging toward them at any minute. He took a step backward before realizing what he was doing. Calm down he chided himself, embarrassed. According to Newt— someone Thomas inexplicably trusted, irrevocably and unequivocally, when he had no reason to—the Grievers only came out at night, after the door closed. Thomas was safe.

Alby continued. "Over three years I've been here. Someone had to come here and spend a month alone, _terrified_ before the next boy came. A _month_ of solitude, with nothing but the barn, a couple of animals, and a tiny shack. That was me." Thomas felt his eyes widen, and his heart quicken. An _entire month alone?_ Thomas thought. With no helpful memories, no explanation, no anticipating the next companion. No one. Simply alone.

Abandoned.

Thomas could only imagine how utterly devastating that must have been. He felt new found respect for his leader.

"Almost four years we've tried to solve this thing," Alby continued. "No luck. The walls out there shift every night. Mappin' it out ain't easy." He nodded toward the concrete-blocked building into which the Runners had disappeared the night before.

Another stab of pain sliced through Thomas's head—there were too many things to compute at once. They'd been here over three years. The walls moved out in the maze. People had died. He stepped forward, wanting to see the maze for himself.

Alby held out a hand and pushed Thomas in the chest, sending his stumbling backward. "Ain't no going out there, shank."

Thomas had to suppress his pride. "Why not?"

"Because that's the Number One Commandment, the only one you'll never be forgiven for breaking. _No one,_ no one is allowed in the maze except the Runners."

Thomas nodded, grumbling inside, his desire to be a Runner strengthened. He had to be. He would be. Deep inside, despite everything he'd learned and witnessed, he knew he had to go out there. It called to him.

A movement up on the left wall of the South Door caught his attention. Startled, he reacted quickly, looking just in time to see a flash of silver. A patch of ivy shook as the thing disappeared into it.

"What's that?" Thomas pointed.

"I was gracious enough to answer you last question, even though I said no questions." He glared at Thomas, then sighed. "Beetle blades. 'S how the Creators watch us. You better not—"

He was cut off by a booming, ringing alarm that sounded from all direction. Thomas clamped his hands to ears, looking around as the siren blared, his heart about to thump its way out of his chest. But when he focused back on Alby, Thomas calmed.

Alby wasn't looking scared. He appeared… confused. Surprised. The alarm clanged through the air.

"What's going on?" Thomas asked. Relief flooded his chest that his tour guide didn't seem to think that world was about to end—but even so, Thomas was growing a little irate with being hit with waves of panic.

"That's weird," Alby said, so quietly he could've been speaking to himself, simply voicing a thought. He scanned the Glade. Thomas noticed people in the Blood House pens glancing around, apparently just as confused. One shouted to Alby, a short, skinny kid drenched in mud.

"What's up with that?" the boy asked, looking to Thomas for some reason.

"I don't know," Alby murmured back.

"What is going _on?_ " Thomas asked, growing frustrated that no one would tell him what that noise was.

"The Box," Alby replied calmly, as if there was no piercing siren that seemed to be coming from the sky. He set off for the middle of the Glade at a brisk pace, his brow furrowed deeply.

"What about it?" Thomas demanded, hurrying to catch up. _Talk to me!_ He wanted to scream. But Alby ignored him, his pace steady as they grew nearer thee box.

Thomas saw everyone rushing toward the box. He spotted Newt. _Newt._ Surely he would talk to Thomas.

"Newt, what's going on?!" Thomas called over to him. Newt glanced over and then jogged over.

"I means a Newbie is coming up in the Box," he said smiling, clapping Thomas on the shoulder, as if expecting Thomas to be as excited as he was.

"So?" Thomas said, still confused by everyone else's confusion.

" _So?_ " Newt replied, his Jaw dropping slightly. Newt stared at Thomas with his piercing green eyes. "Tommy. We've never had two Newbies show up in the same _month_ , much less two days in a row."


	8. 8

The alarm finally stopped after blaring for two full minutes. A crowd had gathered around the steel doors through which Thomas was startled to realize he'd arrived just yesterday. _Yesterday_? Was it really just yesterday? Newt stood to Thomas's right as he felt someone tap his left elbow; he looked over to see Chuck on his other side.

"How goes it, Greenie?"

"Fine," he replied, even though, he felt everything but.

"This is astounding," Newt said with light smile. "It's always been regular. Once a month, every month, same day."

"Maybe whoever's in charge realized you were nothing but a big mistake, and sent someone to replace you," Chuck said giggling as he elbowed Thomas in the ribs, a high-pitched snicker that somehow made Thomas grow more fond of him.

Thomas shot his new friend a fake glare. "You're annoying. Seriously."

"We're buddies now," Chuck said with a smack of his lips and a wave of his arm, as if he were swatting away a bug.

"Look like you're not giving me a choice in matter." But honestly, so far, Chuck was making a decent friend.

"Well. Glad that's settled," Newt chipped in. "Everyone needs a buddy around this place." He smiled at Thomas. "And you've got two."

"And it's only your second day, Greenie."

Thomas grabbed Chuck by the collar, joking around. "Okay, _buddy_ then call me by my name. Thomas. Or I'll throw you down the hole after the—" But Thomas cut the threat short as a thought occurred to him. "Wait, have you guys ever—"

"Tried it," Chuck and Newt interrupted before he could finish, their voices sounding odd layered on top of each other.

"Tried what?"

"Going down the Box after it makes a delivery," Newt answered. "It won't go down until it's completely empty."

Ably had just told him the same thing. "I already knew that, but what about—"

"Tried it," they said again.

"Thomas had to suppress a groan—that was aggravating. "Tried what?"

"Going through the whole _after_ the Box goes down," Chuck said. "Can't. Doors will open, but there's just emptiness. Black. Nothing. No ropes, no chains, nothing. Can't do it."

How could that be possible? How did the Box climb such a great distance without any visible support? "Did you—"

"Tried it."

Thomas _did_ groan this time. "Okay, what?"

"We threw some things into the whole," Newt provided. "Never heard them land. It goes on for a while."

Thomas paused before he replied, looking back and forth at the two faces, not wanting to be cut off again. "What are you? Mind readers or something?" He threw as much sarcasm as he could into the comment as he could.

"Nah. Just brilliant, that's all." Chuck winked.

"Chuck, never wink at me again." Thomas said it with a smile. Chuck was a little annoying, but just like Newt—although Thomas's feelings for Newt was something different entirely—there was something about Chuck that made things seem less terrible. Thomas took a deep breath and looked back toward the crowd around the hole. "So how long until he gets here?"

"Usually takes about half an hour after the alarm," Newt answered.

Thomas thought for a second. There _had_ to be something they hadn't tried. "You're _sure_ about the whole? Have you ever…" He paused, looking between the two again, waiting for an interruption, but continued when it didn't come. "Have you ever tried—"

"Tried it," they smiled.

Thomas let out a furious grunt, balling his hands into fist. "You guys are enjoying that!"

"Yes," Chuck responded through a small laugh.

"Tried what?" Thomas said through his teeth.

"Making a rope," Newt said. "With ivy. Longest one we could possibly make."

" _That_ little experiment didn't go too well."

"What do you mean?" What now?

"I was at the front, holding the rope with Alby," Newt said. "We had only lowered the kid who volunteered to go down about teen feet when something swooshed through the air, cutting him clean in half." Newt made a swift sweeping motion with his arm, his hand like a blade.

" _What_?" was all Thomas could mutter through his shock.

"Yup. Creators sent him back in the Box with our next week's supplies. Cut in half like a knife through butter. We keep him in a trunk to remind future kids not to be so stupid."

Thomas waited for one of them to laugh or smile, thinking this had to be a joke. But neither of their faces broke. "You're serious?"

"I would never lie to you, Tommy," Newt said sincerely. "Come on, mate. Let's go over and see the bloke that comes up."

"I can't believe you only have to be the Greenbean for one day," Chuck groaned. "Klunkhead."

As the three of them walked over, Thomas asked the question he hadn't posed yet. "How do you know it's not just supplies or whatever?"

"The alarm doesn't sound when that happens," Newt said. "The supplies come up at the same time every week."

"Hey, look," Chuck pointed to someone in the crowd. It was Gally staring at them as they walked. "He does _not_ like you, dude."

"Yeah," Thomas muttered. "Figured that out already."

"You should go ask his bloody problem is. We don't need any more tension around here; we've got enough of that as it is," Newt said.

"Nah. He has more ally's than I do. Not a good person to pick a fight with."

"It doesn't matter how many he has. You have _me._ Shall I go ask for you? He wouldn't _dare_ say anything to me."

"Nah. Just… don't worry about it." For a moment Newt looked as if he wanted to press the issue, but he caught Thomas's eye and let it go. The boys continued on their way the edge of the crowd, and with Newt amongst them, they made their way to the front to stand right next to the doors that led to the Box.

Moments later, the crowd parted to permit Alby. He strolled up to stand next to Newt. Then everyone quieted. It became so silent Thomas could hear the birds chirping, cows mooing in the distance and also… the grinds and rattles of the rinsing lift, reminding him of his own nightmarish trip the day before. Sadness washed over him, almost as if he were reliving those few terrible minutes of awakening in darkness to memory loss. He felt sorry for whoever the new boy was, going through the same things.

Evidently after reading the expression Thomas's face, Newt's fingers—unseen by anyone for they were all staring down at the closed doors in anticipation—slipped in between Thomas's fingers, their warms palms touching. Thomas found that it made him feel better. Everyone stood silent and patient staring down at the door until he heard a muffled boom announce the bizarre elevator's arrival.

Newt's fingers left Thomas's and he and Alby took positions on opposite sides of the shaft doors—a crack split the metal square, right down the middle. Simple hook-handles were attached on both sides, and together they yanked them apart. With a metallic scrape the doors were opened, and a puff of dust from the surrounding stone rose in the air.

Complete silence, as Newt leaned over to get a better look into the Box, and even standing this close, Thomas couldn't see the bottom of it. He leaned forward as far as he possibly could without drawing attention to himself, although he was nowhere near the only one leaning. Chuck looked shocked to find himself on the front row, as if wondering how he got there, and he too like everyone else, was leaning forward, trying catch a glimpse of the newcomer.

With a sudden jerk, Newt pushed himself back into an upright position, "Holy shit," he breathed eyes wide.

"No way," Alby murmured, almost trance like.

A chorus of question filled the air as everyone began pushing forward to get a look in to the small opening. But Thomas was first.

A girl. And she looked _dead_.

The guys further back were still mumbling and scrambling, peeping over and under shoulders. Chuck stood next to Thomas, his jaw dropped in awe.

"Two Newbies in two days and now this?" Alby whispered. "Almost four years with nothing different." He glared at Thomas. "What's goin' on here Greenie?"

Thomas stared back, confused, his face turning red, gut clenching. "How am I supposed to know?"

"Why don't you just tell us what the shuck is down there?!" Gally called from back.

"It's a girl," Newt said.

"Dibs!" Thomas heard someone scream. There were more murmurs and another surge forward, and in someone haste to get through, Thomas was bumped and he tripped with a gasp of horror, falling with wide eyes as he reached and clawed at _anything_ , but his hands only found air. An eight foot fall into the Box and Thomas landing on his back with a hard thud next to the girl's unmoving body. It knocked the breath out of him.

"Which one of you _slintheads_ did that!" Thomas heard Alby scream.

Before he could inhale, before his heart got a chance to pound against his chest, the girl suddenly shot into a sitting position, sucking in a huge breath and grabbing Thomas's wrist, making him jump out of his skin. Had there been anything in his lungs, Thomas would've screamed. He tried to scrambled away but her grip was surprisingly strong.

Burning blue eyes stared into nothing, wide a quarters, as Thomas fought with his breath and her hand. Then she spoke one, clear sentence in a loud ringing voice.

 _"_ _Everything is going to change."_

Thomas froze and stared, his heart attempting to escape through his sternum, as her eyes rolled into her head and she fell to her back again, her grip loosening on his wrists. He snatched it out and scrambled into the nearest corner, his hand brushing against a piece of paper she must have dropped when she'd clutched his wrist, and in his rush to get away, it was brushed into the corner with him. Thomas almost didn't feel in his haste to get away. All of this—from Thomas initial fall, to him scrambling to the corner—transpired in about ten seconds.

Thomas picked up the folded piece of paper, opening it, his heart still pounding.

 _She's the last one._

 _Ever._


	9. 9

Moments later, ropes dropped into the Box and Newt was lowered in. He looked at Thomas, balled up in the corner, eyes wide with fear.

"Are you alright?" Newt asked, his voice laced with concern, he stared at Thomas. Completely ignoring the girl. Thomas nodded stiffly.

"It's okay, Tommy," he said crouched low, and creeping over to Thomas as if speaking to a frightened child. "Come on. Get up." He gently grabbed Thomas's hands, and as always Thomas relaxed at his touch and presence.

Thomas rose to his feet and gently placed the note in Newt's hand. His eyes flicked across it and his face went pale.

"Most of us heard what… Come on. The Med-jacks are waiting. We have to get her out of here," he said, looking down at her for the first time.

"How?" Thomas asked.

Newt moved over to lift the unconscious girl into a sitting position holding her there by her armpits. "Get the rope and tie it around her underarms." And Thomas, feeling much, better with Newt here, complied. He had the fleeting thought that maybe this was why Alby had sent Newt down instead of coming himself, as he wrapped the rope around the girl's chest, then held her by her sides as Newt tied it.'

Maybe it was because of the situation, or maybe because she was unconscious, but Thomas felt no form of attraction to this girl, though she was relatively beautiful, with glossy shoulder-length, dark, wavy hair and full pink lips, flawless skin, long legs. Still he felt nothing like what he felt towards Newt.

But looking in the girl's face…. Thomas felt that he _knew_ her.

"We're ready!" Newt called out, and before Thomas could get a better look, the girl was being pulled away, leaving Thomas alone with Newt.

"You were looking pretty terrified, mate," Newt said, with a nervous smile.

"You would've been scared too had you fallen in here with what you thought was dead body," Thomas responded with a light smile. Newt was making him feel better by the minute. The rope fell between them.

"Go," Newt said. Thomas looked into those deep green eyes. "I'm right behind you." Newt smiled. Thomas stepped into the rope just as he had yesterday. _Was it really just yesterday?_ he thought again, as he was swiftly pulled from the box, unfamiliar hands pulled him out, and he looked around. Everyone was crowded nearby around the girl. Newt popped up beside him. Together they made their way over, and just like before, being with Newt, Thomas found it easy to get to the center of the circle. Alby and two older guys—one with a buzz cut and the other with gray hairs already conquering the side of his black head— were sitting on their heels around the girl, everyone else standing around them.

"So what do we do with her?" an older guy with a buzz cut asked.

"How should I know?" Alby replied. "You're the Med-jacks—figure it out."

 _Med-jacks_ , Thomas repeated in his head, a light going off. T _hey must be the closest thing they have to doctors._ The oddly gray-haired one felt for her pulse and listened to her heart.

"Who said Clint had first shot at her?" someone yelled from the crowd. There were several barks of laughter. "I'm next!"

 _How can they joke around?_ Thomas thought. _The girl is half dead._ He felt sick inside.

Alby's eyes narrowed as he looked up at the crowd; his mouth pulled into a tight grimace. "If anybody touches this girl, you're goin' out to the Grievers. Banished. No questions." He paused, turning in a slow circle as if we wanted everyone to see his face. "Ain't nobody better touch her! Nobody!"

It was the first time Thomas had actually liked hearing something come out of Alby's mouth. Newt crouched and gave Ably the note. His eyes crossed over it, then he spread it out on the ground and rose to his feet, moving for the others to read. It grew silent again

Then the short guy who'd been referred to as Med-jack— _Clint_ if the spectator was right—stood from his examination, and all attention turned to him. "She seems fine. Breathing okay, normal heartbeat, strong, steady pulse," he shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. It's like she's simply _sleeping_. I'd say she's in a coma." The boy stood there, gesturing as he spoke, as if he were a real doctor giving a diagnosis. "Jeff, let's take her to the Homestead."

His partner, Jeff, stepped over to grab her by the arms while Clint took hold of her ankles. Thomas wished he could do more than watch—with every passing second, the creeping familiarity seeped through. Thomas felt a connection to this girl. The idea made him nervous, and looked around as if someone may have heard his thoughts.

"On the count of three," Jeff, the taller Med-jacks, was saying, his tall frame looking ridiculous been in half, like a praying mantis. "One… two… three!"

They lifted her with a quick jerk, almost sending her flying through the air—she was apparently much lighter than they'd anticipated.

"Watch her closely," Newt said as they retreated. "Must be something special about her or they wouldn't have sent her here."

Thomas's gut clenched. He knew that he and the girl were connected somehow. They'd come a day apart, she seemed familiar, he had a consuming urge to become a Runner despite learning so many terrible things… What did all mean? He would have to get Newt alone later and confess all of this to, get it off his chest.

Seeing the Med-jacks carry the girl off to the Homestead brought Ben back to Thomas's mind—along with the horrific image of him writhing in bed. Thomas would have to get Newt to tell him about that as well, even if he had to wheedle it out of him with a couple of kisses and caresses.

"Ain't nothing better happen without me knowing about," Alby said. "I don't care is she talks in her sleep or takes a klunk—you come and tell me about it."

Thomas saw Jeff nod in their retreat. The other Gladers finally started to talk about it, scattering as theories flew through the air.

Thomas watched all this in mute contemplation. This strange connection he felt wasn't his alone. Alby's bold question earlier echoed through Thomas's mind. _What's going on here, Greenie?_ That proved that he—maybe even all the others—suspected something too, but what? He was already completely confused; being blamed for things only made him feel worse. As if reading his thoughts, Alby walked over and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"You ain't never seen her before?"

Thomas hesitated before he answered. "No. Not that I remember." He hoped that his shaky voice didn't reveal his doubts. What if he _did_ know her? What would that mean?

"You're sure?" Newt frowned. Thomas looked into his face. He didn't want to lie to Newt. He tried to transfer with eyes that he would tell him later, when they were alone. He didn't think that Alby would understand how he felt.

"I… no. I don't think so," Thomas said. That wasn't _exactly_ lying, was it? He turned back to Alby. "Why are you grilling me like this?" All Thomas wanted right then was to get Newt alone and talk to him.

Alby shook his head, then turned back to Newt, releasing his grip on Thomas shoulder. "Something's whacked. Call a Gathering."

He said it quietly enough that Thomas didn't think anyone else heard, but it ominous. Then the leader walked off. Newt hesitated before following, giving Thomas a wary glance.

"I'll talk to you later. I promise," Thomas whispered. And Newt followed Alby.

Thomas was relieved to see Chuck coming his way.

"Chuck, what's a Gathering?"

He looked proud to know the answer. "It's when the Keepers meet. They only call one when something weird or terrible happens."

"Well. I guess this fits both of those categories pretty well." Thomas's stomach rumbled, interrupting his thoughts. "I didn't finish my breakfast. Can we get something somewhere? I'm starving."

Chuck looked up at him, his eyebrows raised. "Seeing that chick wig out made you hungry? You must be more psycho than I thought."

"Just get me some food."

ooo

The kitchen was small but had everything one needed: an oven, a microwave, a dishwasher, a coupled of tables, a refrigerator… It seemed old and shabby but clean. Seeing the appliances and the familiar layout made Thomas feel as if memories—real, solid memories—were tight on the edge of his mind. But again, the essentials were missing— names, faces, places, events.

"Take a seat," Chuck said. "I'll get you something, but I swear this is the last time. Just be glad Frypan isn't around. He hates it when we raid his fridge."

Thomas was relieved they were alone. As Chuck fumbled about with dishes and things from the fridge, Thomas pulled out a wooden chair from a small plastic table and sat down. "This whole place, all of this is crazy. Why would someone send us here?" Thomas asked, in no hopes of an answer.

"Quit complaining," Chuck said his face stuck into the fridge. "Just let it sink in and don't let it bother you."

"Yeah, right." Thomas looked around the kitchen again, at the appliances and one of his many unasked questioned occurred to him. "So where does all the electricity come from?"

"Who cares? We need it; I'll take it."

What a surprise. No answer.

Chuck brought two plates with two sandwiches, complete with tomatoes and lettuce. The bread was thick and white. Thomas's stomach begged him to hurry and he picked up his sandwich, devouring it.

"Oh, man," he mumbled with his mouth full. "At least that feels good." They both ate in silence, the food holding their tongues. Five bites and sixty seconds later, Thomas sat there calm, his hunger, quenched, his energy replenished, and his mind thankful for a few moments of silence. He decided then that he would quit complaining and deal with things.

"So. What do I have to do to become a Runner?"

"Not that again." Chuck looked up from his plate where he had picking at tomato seeds.

"Alby said I'd start my trials soon with the different Keepers. So when do I get a shot with the Runners?" Thomas waited patiently, determined to get some information from Chuck.

Chuck rolled his eyes with a sigh, leaving no doubt as to how stupid and idea he thought that would be. "They should be back in a few hours. Why don't you ask _them?_ "

Thomas ignored the sarcasm and continued to his question while Chuck was willing to answer, saving his energy for Chuck decided he didn't want to anymore. Then Thomas would have to pull the words out of him. "What do they do when they back every night? What's in the concrete building?"

"Maps. They meet right when they get back, before they forget anything."

" _Maps?_ "

"Maps."

Thomas was confused. "If they're simply making a map, what's with the meetings? Don't they have paper to write on while they're out there?"

"Of course they do. But there's still thinks they need to discuss, analyze, and all that klunk." He waved his arm, just like he had earlier, when he'd announced their friendship. "But they spend most of their time running, not writing. That's why there called _Runners_."

Thomas ignored that too, thinking about Runners and maps. Could the maze really be so massive that even after almost four years they still hadn't found a way out? It seemed impossible. But then—Alby had said the walls moved. What if all of them were sentenced to live here until _death?_

Sentenced. The word made him feel a rush of panic, and the spark of hope the meal had brought him fizzled.

"Chuck. What if we're all criminals? I mean—what if we're murderers or something?

"Huh?" Chuck looked up at him as if he were a crazy person. "Where did that happy thought come from?"

"Think about it. We live inside a place that seems to have no way out, surrounded by bloodthirsty monster-guards. Sounds like a prison to me. That's the only explanation I can think of as to why someone would throw us into a situation like this." As he said it out loud, it seemed more and more plausible.

"I'm probably like twelve, dude. At the most thirteen. You really think I did something to send me to prison for the rest of my life?"

"I doesn't matter what you did or didn't do. Either way, we _have_ been sent to a prison. Even if that's not what the creators meant it be, that's what it is. We're trapped in here, against our will, with no way out. Prisoners."

"I don't know," Chuck countered. "It's better than—"

"Yeah, yeah. Living on a pile of klunk." Thomas stood up and pushed his chair back under the table. He liked Chuck, but trying to have an intelligent conversation with him was impossible. Not to mention exhausting. Thomas wanted Newt. "I'm going to explore," he said. "Make yourself another sandwich. See ya tonight."

He stepped out of the kitchen and into the courtyard before Chuck could offer to join him on his false exploring. The Glade had gone back to business as usual—people working the jobs, the doors of the box closed, sun shining down. Any signs of a crazed girl bearing ominous messages had vanished.

Thomas first thought at finding Newt the second floor of the Homestead, but considering how it had gone down last time, he decided to make checking there his last resort. His second thought was the treehouse, but he was relatively positive that he wouldn't be able to find it alone, and was almost just as sure that Newt wouldn't be there. He settled for a walk around the Glade. His Tour had been cut short, so he would go on his own and get a better look and feel for the place, hopefully running into Newt along the way.

Thomas headed for the northeast corner, toward the big rows of tall green cornstalks that looked ready to harvest. There was other stuff, too: tomatoes, lettuce, peas, and a lot more that Thomas didn't recognize.

He took deep breaths, loving the fresh whiff of dirt and growing plants. He was almost positive the smell would bring back a pleasant memory, but nothing came. As he got closer, he saw that several boys were weeding and poking and picking in the small fields. One waved at him with a smile. Thomas waved back.

 _Maybe this place won't be so bad after all,_ Thomas thought. _Not everyone here could be jerk._ He took another deep breath of pleasant air and pulled himself out of his thoughts. Newt didn't seem to be here and there was no more Thomas wanted to see.

Next was the southeast corner, where shabbily built wooden fences held in several cows, goats, sheep, and pigs. No horses. _That sucks_ , Thomas thought. _Riders_ would definitely be faster than Runners. As he approached, he figured he must've dealt with animals in his life before the Glade. Their smell, their sound—it seemed very familiar to him. Maybe caring for them could be his job around this place. Then he second thought that. Caring for the animals, raising them and growing attached, for them to simply be slaughtered in the end? No. He didn't think he would like that. Thomas was beginning to think that maybe he was a vegetarian before as well. The thought of killing these innocent animals made him not want to eat meat.

But that ham and cheese he'd had yesterday had sure been good. So was the sandwich he had just ate and the bacon from breakfast. With those thoughts going through his mind, Thomas felt that he could watch in agony as these animals were murdered, maybe shed a few tears, and then wipe them away as he set out to make a fire to cook the fresh meat. Yes. Thomas was definitely a meat eater. _Humans are meant to eat meat_ , Thomas thought. _That why we have canine teeth._

As he searched the area, he realized more and more how well the Gladers kept the place up, how clean it was. He was impressed by how organized they must be, how hard they all must work. He could only imagine how truly horrific a place this would be if everyone were lazy and defiant.

And Newt wasn't here. He looked over toward the forest and decided to search for the treehouse anyway. If he couldn't find it, he could always listen for sounds of the Glade, and follow his ears back.

He was approaching the sparse, skeletal trees in the front of the denser woods when he was startled by movement at his feet, followed by a hurried set of clacking sounds. He looked down just in time to see the sun flash off something metallic—a toy rat—no—a _beetle blade_ —scurrying past him and toward the small forest.

 _It's how they watch us_ , Alby had said.

The thing was already ten feet away when he saw the word _WICKED_ scrawled down its rounded back in large green letters. That was so strange and intriguing, it had to be investigated. He would search for Newt later.

Thomas sprinted after the scurrying spy and in a matter of seconds he entered the thicket of trees.


	10. 10

Moving as fast as he could, Thomas crashed through the heavy foliage, thin branches slapping at his face. He ducked to avoid a low-hanging limb, almost falling. Reaching out, he caught hold of a branch and swung himself forward to regain his balance. The leaves crunched under his feet.

All the while his eyes stayed unerringly riveted on the beetle blade scuttling across the forest floor. Deeper it went, so far that Thomas was afraid he wouldn't be able to hear the Glade anymore. He tried to listen but he only heard the leaves under his feet. He would have to stop moving, but if he stopped he would lose the spy. There was no contemplation. Thomas stopped; he wouldn't risk getting lost. He watched the beetle blade scurry away. Then it occurred to him that couldn't hear anything, so he'd gotten lost anyway.

Thomas's eyes widened in fear. This forest wasn't really that large; he would eventually get out but it could still take him hours to wander his way out because he could just be ignorantly walking in circles. He would probably find the wall before he found—the wall. If he found the wall, which would be easier to find than the exit, he could follow it, using it to guide him out.

"Crap," he grunted, kicking at the leaves. _Why didn't I think of that earlier?_ He could've kept following the beetle blade. Well he had let the thing get away now and it looked like he would be putting Operation Find the Wall into action. Or. He could look for Newt's treehouse.

Thomas looked around. Now that was in there, he realized that he would never find it. All those trees looked exactly the same. He remembered that Newt's tree was shorter and really wide. He couldn't see a tree like that. He also remembered Newt saying you could sometimes hear the Glade from up there. Thomas couldn't hear the Glade, therefore he had passed Newt's tree.

He decided to find the wall and get out of there.

"Shuck it," he whispered, almost as a joke. Almost. As strange as it seemed, the word felt natural on his lips, like he was already morphing into a Glader.

A twig snapped somewhere to his right, and he jerked his head in that direction. He stilled his breath, listening.

Another snap, this time louder, almost like someone had broken a stick over their knee.

"Who's there?" Thomas called out. The fear he'd felt when he realized he was lost was returning. He stayed frozen. But no one answered his call. Nor did hear any more sounds from that direction.

Well. Thomas most definitely wasn't going to look for wall in _that_ direction, not when he was hearing odd snapping noises. He sun on his heel and went the opposite way, trying to put as much distance between him and that location as possible, still listening for snapping.

And there was another. And another. Thomas bolted. He had no idea where he was going but he ran, trying to get away from he didn't know what, but he could hear that whomever or—it terrified him to think it—whatever that was had given up stealth and begun to pursue him. His only hope was to run out of there. But he didn't. He ran straight into the graveyard. _Graveyard's in the back corner in the thicker woods,_ Alby had said. Thomas could feel himself go pale. _He was going the wrong way._ But he couldn't turn around because the unknown was still in pursuit of him, but if he kept going straight he would trap himself in a corner.

Thomas turned left in hopes of running around the unknown, but he felt his ankle catch on a wooden grave marker and he tumbled. _The unknown was getting closer._ A skinny boy burst through the trees before Thomas could get up, and the figure was on top of him, slamming into his shoulders, gripping him in strong hands.

He pushed and swatted at his attacker, a relentless jumble of skin and bones cavorting on top of him as he tried to gain purchase. It seemed like monster, a horror from a nightmare, but Thomas knew it had to be a Glader, someone who'd completely lost his mind. Thomas didn't know who it was, didn't _care._ He heard teeth snapping open and closed, a horrific clack, clack. Then he felt the jarring dagger of pain as the boy's mouth found his shoulder.

Thomas screamed, the pain like a burst of adrenaline through his blood. He planted the palms of his hands on the attackers chest and pushed, straightening his arms until his muscles strained against the struggling weight. Finally the kid fell back.

Thomas squirmed away, and was back on his feet, running again. But before he could get far, he stepped around a tree and ran slap into another one, falling back down on his backside with a loud crunch of leaves and breaking twigs.

" _Ben!_ " the tree spoke. _What?_ Thomas thought, and in looking up he saw that it wasn't a tree he had run into.

It was Alby. And he held a large bow, an arrow cocked, pointing at—Thomas looked back over his shoulder, and saw that his attacker was indeed…

Ben.


	11. 11

Ben had recovered only slightly since Thomas had seen in the homestead. He wore nothing but shorts, his whiter-than-white skin stretched across his bones like a sheet wrapped tightly around a bundle of sticks. Ropelike veins ran along his body, pulsing and green—but less pronounced they had been the day before. His bloodshot eyes fell upon Thomas as if he were seeing his next meal. At some point a knife had made appearance, gripped in his right hand.

Thomas was filled with a queasy fear and disbelief that this was happening, as he sat huffing at Alby's feet, his heart pounding.

"Ben. Stop. Right now. Or this arrow is going through your skull." He spoke calmly, as if he was not making a death threat, but merely commenting on the weather. Somehow his tone made the phrase more intimidating.

Thomas, who felt it would be unwise to look away, was still staring over his shoulder at Ben, who stared viciously at Alby, his tongue darting between his chapped lips to wet them. What was wrong with him? He had turned into a monster. Why?

"If you kill me," Ben said, just as calmly, though he still looked murderous, "you'll get the wrong guy. _He's_ the shank you should kill."

"Don't be stupid, Ben." Alby was still calm as well, though the arrow remained trained on Ben. "Thomas just got here. Ain't nothing to worry about. You're still bugged from the Changing. You should have never left your bed."

"He is not one of us," Ben firmly said. "I saw him. He is _bad_. We have to kill him." He spoke as if were simply stating a common fact. Thomas found the lack of raised voices in a situation like this very ominous.

Alby hadn't moved his weapon and inch. He hands were perfectly steady, as if he were propped against a branch for support. "You leave that to me and the Keepers to figure out. Right now, back your scrawny ass down, and get to the Homestead."

"He'll wanna take us home," Ben said. "He'll want to get us out of the maze. Better we all jumped off the Cliff."

Thomas decided that it was time to defend himself. "What are talking—"

" _Shut your face!_ " Ben made the first scream, causing Thomas to almost jump out of his skin. "You shut your treacherous face!"

"Ben." Alby remained calm. "I am going to count to count to three."

"He's bad, he's bad. He is bad, bad, bad," Ben was whispering now, almost chanting. He swayed back and forth, switching the blade from hand to hand, eyes glued to Thomas.

"One."

"Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad…"

Thomas wanted to get out of there, but felt it would be foolish to do so. He feared that any movement on his part would induce Ben's attack. Therefore, he remained frozen. His neck had developed a crick from being turned in such a position for an extensive period, but still he refused to budge.

"Two." Alby's voice was louder, filled with warning. Thomas's neck spasmed; he involuntarily reached for it, and snapped his head back forward, immediately feeling relief.

Ben screamed, a strangled gurgle of madness, and leapt into the air, slashing out with his blade and Thomas scrambled, trying to get away.

There was the sound of snapping wire, then a _whoosh_ and _thunk_. And the sound of body crashing to the ground.

Thomas scrambled to his feet, turning to see Ben lying on his back, an arrow through his cheek, blood surprisingly less than Thomas had expected, but seeping out all the same. Dark, like oil. Thomas felt the urge to vomit. Ben was dead. Was this Thomas's fault? Why had Ben been convinced of Thomas's badness?

"Come on," Alby said. "Baggers'll take care of him tomorrow."

 _What just happened?_ The world tilted around Thomas as he stared at the lifeless body. _What did I ever do to this kid?_

He looked up, wanting answers, but Alby was already gone, a trembling branch the only sign he'd ever been there in the first place.

Thomas squeezed his eyes against the blinding light of the sun as he emerged from the woods, after following the sound of Alby's footsteps out. He was limping, his ankle screamed in pain from when he had tripped over the grave marker. He held one hand over the area where he'd been bitten. He didn't know anything about the Changing.

 _Is this bite rabid?_ he thought. Thomas mentally scolded himself. _No. Thomas. You're_ _thinking of zombies_. _Ben was not a zombie. He was just a very sick and confused boy._ The image of him popped into Thomas's mind, cocked at an unnatural angle, blood running down the side of his head until collected in a dark puddle on the ground.

And that did it.

He fell to his knees by one of the scraggly trees on the outskirts of the forest and retched, the sandwich he'd had coming back up, mingled with acids and nasty bile. His whole body shook.

After a couple of seconds he looked up, eyes unfocused, to see a blurry figured running wide open in his direction. What now? He didn't even have the energy to feel afraid let alone run. Thomas eyes focused as Newt slowed to stand in front of him.

"Alby told me," he said panicked. "Are you okay?" Thomas was so happy to see him he reached out and embraced the taller boy, feeling Newt's strong arms around his back. After a moment of silence, Newt pushed him back but didn't let go. He pressed the foreheads together, staring a Thomas with those deep green eyes. "Are you okay?" he whispered. Thomas was flattered that Newt cared for him so, when they'd only known each other for roughly twenty-four hours. But if the roles were reversed, he was sure that he would giving Newt the same treatment that Newt now gave him.

Thomas nodded. He didn't mention his ankle. He didn't want to worry about.

"He just—he just _came_ at me… Looking… deranged… What was wrong with him?"

"It's the Changing. The Grievers get at you and you come out of it different." Different? What did he mean different? The Grievers turned you into lunatics? Thomas wanted to be brave in front of Newt but he involuntarily shivered.

Newt gave his lower lip a soft peck, but didn't do more.

Yes. Thomas had been here roughly twenty-four hours. One full day. That was it. And look at all the things that had happened. Terrible things. But with Newt in his arms, he couldn't help thinking.

 _Surely it can only get better._

That night, Thomas lay staring at the sparkling sky, wandering if he'd ever sleep again. Every time he closed his eyes, the monstrous image of Ben leaping at him, the boy's face set in lunacy, filled his mind. Eyes opened or not, he could swear he kept hearing the moist thunk of the arrow slamming into Ben's cheek.

Thomas knew he'd never forget those few terrible minutes in the graveyard.

"Say something," Chuck said for the fifth time since they'd set out their sleeping bags.

"No," Thomas replied, just as he had before.

"Everyone knows what happened. It's happened once or twice before—some Griever-stung shank flipped out and somebody. Don't think you're special."

For the first time, Thomas thought Chuck's personality had gone from mildly irritating to intolerable, because that had hit a sore spot. Thomas already didn't like how everyone seemed to be suspicious of him. Ben, Gally, Alby… He had his inexplicable desire to become a runner, the strange connection he felt to the girl, and now, here Chuck was calling him special. He didn't want to special. He didn't _want_ this attention.

Thomas glared.

"Hey. I'm just—"

"Shut up and go to sleep." Thomas rolled over.

Eventually his "buddy" dozed off, and based on the rumble of snores across the Glade, so did everyone else. Hours later, deep in the night, Thomas was still the only one awake. He wanted to cry, but didn't. He wanted to find Newt, cuddle up next to him and be held and comforted, but he didn't. He wanted to find Alby and punch him, for no reason whatsoever, but he didn't. He wanted to scream and kick and spit and open the Box and jump into the blackness below… But he didn't.

He closed his eyes and forced the thoughts and images away and at some point he fell asleep, with dreams of being trapped in the maze, attempting to escape Ben's dead body but every turn he made brought him back to the same place, back to Ben's dead body.

ooo

Chuck had to drag Thomas out of his sleeping bag in the morning, drag him to the showers, and drag him to the dressing rooms. The whole time, Thomas felt mopey and indifferent, his head aching. Breakfast was blur, and an hour after it was over, Thomas couldn't remember what he'd eaten. He was so tired, his brain felt like someone had gone in and stapled it to his skull in a dozen places. Heartburn ravaged his chest.

He stood with Newt in front of the barn of the Blood House, getting ready for his first training session with a Keeper. Despite the rough morning, he was actually excited to learn more, and for the chance to get him mind off Ben and the graveyard. Cows mooed, sheep bleated, pigs squealed all around him. Somewhere close by, a dog barked, making Thomas hope Frypan didn't bring a new meaning to the word _hot dog_.

 _Hot dog_ , he thought. _When's the last time I had a hot dog? Who did I eat it with?_

"Tommy, are listening?"

Thomas snapped out of the daze and focused on Newt, who'd been talking for who knew how long. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I didn't get much sleep, had a nightmare."

Newt rubbed his shoulder. "Can't blame ya there. Went through the bloody ringer you did. You don't have to work today, after an episode like that. I can convince Alby to let you off."

Thomas shrugged. "Work's probably the best thing I could do. Anything to get my mind off it."

Newt kissed him.

"That works too," Thomas mumbled into his lips. "But we can't sit around and make out all day."

Newt nodded, and smiled. "I said it before, and I'll say it again. Clever, you are. That's one of the reasons we run this place nice and busy-like. You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin' up. Plain and simple."

Thomas nodded. "So what's the latest on the girl?" Thomas wanted to understand his odd connection to her. He wanted to know if he really did know her somehow.

"Still in a coma, sleepin'. Med-jacks are spoon-feeding her whatever soups Frypan can cook up, checking vitals and such. She seems okay, just dead to the world for now."

"That was just plain terrifying." If it hadn't been for the whole Ben-in-the-graveyard incident, Thomas was sure that he would have had a nightmare about that instead. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to sleep for an entirely different reason.

Thomas looked over Newt's shoulder at the big faded-red barn, pushing thoughts of the girl aside. "So what's first? Milking cows or slicing up innocent piggies?" Thomas felt the same pang for the animals he had earlier, but again thought about how delicious they were and immediately felt better.

Newt laughed, and Thomas found that he simply _loved_ that sound coming from him. It captivated him. And at that moment, Thomas felt something in his chest, a clingy feeling. He felt like he could and would do _anything_ for this person. He didn't care about his past life, if I was a life without Newt in it. What was this feeling? Thomas didn't have a name for it. But he felt it in every fiber of his being, felt it in the tips of his fingers. Fingers that craved to reach out and stroke the boy's face, across those thick eyebrows and thin lips… Love. The word came to Thomas like a stroke of inspiration would, abrupt, sudden.

Love.

Thomas loved Newt.

"What?" Newt said, his eyes widening. "Is something on my face?" He reached for it, feeling around.

Thomas smiled. "No. Your face is perfect." Newt turned slightly red at that comment.

"Come on. Let's go meet Winston—he's the Keeper." Newt said, taking Thomas hand. Thomas noticed that he was showing affection where they could be seen, and discovered that, he didn't care who noticed.

Winston was an acne-covered kid, short but muscular, and it seemed to Thomas that he liked his job way too much. _Maybe he was sent here for being a serial killer,_ Thomas thought. He would have to keep an eye on this boy.

Winston showed Thomas around for the first hour, pointing out which pens held which animals, where the chicken and turkey coops were, what went where in the barn. The dog, a pesky Lab named Bark, took quickly to Thomas, hanging at his feet the entire tour. Wondering where the dog came from, Thomas ask and Winston's reply was that the dog had always been there. Luckily he seemed to have gotten his name as joke because he was pretty quiet.

As it turned out, the Slicers did any and everything that had to do with the animals. The second hours was spent interacting—feeding, cleaning, fixing a fence, scraping up klunk. _Klunk_. Thomas discovered himself using the Gladers' terms more and more.

The third hour was the hardest for Thomas. He had to watch as Winston slaughtered—murdered—a hog and began preparing its many parts for future eating. Thomas swore to himself as he walked away for lunch break, that his future would have nothing to do with the animals.

Winston had said for him to go alone, that he'd hang around the Blood House, which was fine with Thomas. As he walked toward the East Door, he couldn't stop picturing Winston in a dark corner of the barn gnawing on a raw pig's feet. They guy gave Thomas the willies.

Thomas was just passing the Box when he was surprised to see someone enter the Glade from the Maze, through the West door, to his left—an Asian kid with strong arms and short black hair. That Handsome Asian Guy—Minho. Thomas knew the guy's name now. He seemed a little older than Thomas. The runner stopped three steps in, then bent over and put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He looked like he'd just run twenty miles, face red, skin covered in sweat, clothes soaked, clinging to his muscular body. And Thomas found that as he looked, the feeling he had felt before for this stranger were no more. Minho was still just as handsome, but Thomas could only think of Newt as he looked at him.

And look at him, Thomas did—he'd yet to see a Runner up close or talk to one. Plus, based on the last couple of days, this Runner was home hours early. Thomas stepped forward, eager to meet him and ask questions. But before he could form a sentence Minho collapsed to ground.


	12. 12

There was no hesitation. This boy needed help.

"Alby!" Thomas shouted. "Newt! Somebody get them!"

Thomas sprinted to the older boy and knelt down beside him. "Hey—you okay?" Minho's head rested on outstretched arms as he panted, his chest heaving. He was conscious, but Thomas had never seen anyone so exhausted.

"I'm…fine," he said between gasps, then looked up. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm new here." It hit Thomas then that the Runners spent most of their day out in the Maze and hadn't witnessed any of the recent events firsthand. Did Minho even know about the girl? Surely someone had told him. "I'm Thomas—been a couple of days."

Minho pushed himself up into a sitting position, his black hair matted to his skull with sweat. "Oh, yeah, Thomas. I was here when you arrived," he huffed. "Newbie. You and the chick."

Alby jogged up then, clearly upset. "What're doing back? What happened?"

"Calm your wad," Minho replied, seeming to gain strength by the second. "Make yourself useful and get me some water. I dropped my pack out there somewhere."

But Alby didn't move. He kicked Minho in the leg—too hard to be playful. "What

happened?"

" _I can barely talk, shuck-face!_ " Minho yelled, his voice raw. "Get me some water!"

Alby looked over at Thomas, who was shocked to see the hint of a smile flash across his face before vanishing in a scowl. "He's the only shank who can talk to me like that without getting his ass kicked off the Cliff."

Then, surprising Thomas even more, Alby turned and ran off, presumably to get Minho some water. So. Newt could do whatever he wanted, and Minho could _say_ whatever he wanted. Thomas was beginning to wonder if anyone else had any privileges. He was also beginning to think that maybe their tightwad of a leader wasn't such a tightwad after all.

Thomas turned to Minho. "He allows you to boss him around?"

He shrugged, then wiped his brow. "You scared of that guy? Dude you got a lot to learn."

"Isn't he the leader?"

"Leader?" Minho barked a grunt that was probably supposed to be a laugh. "Yeah call him leader all you want. Maybe call him El Presidente. Nah, nah—Admiral Alby. There you go." He rubbed his eyes, snickering as he did so.

It was hard to tell if this guy was joking so Thomas was confused. No one had strictly said it, but all events up to now resonated Alby was the leader. "If he isn't the leader, who is?"

"Greenie," Thomas hadn't heard that name in a while and it rubbed him the wrong way. He'd never wanted to be called that in the first place, "Why do guy always come here asking stupid questions? It's—"

"My name is Thomas," he stated resolutely. "And what do you expect us to do?" _Like you were any different when you first came._

"Do what you're told, _Greenie_. Keep your mouth shut. That's what I expect." _Eugh_. Yes, he was gorgeous, but Thomas was disliking this boy more and more, proof that's looks aren't everything.

Minho looked him square in the face for the first time with that last sentence, and Thomas scooted back a few inches before he could stop himself. He realized immediately he'd just made a mistake—he couldn't let this guy think he could talk to him like that.

He pushed himself back up onto his knees so he was looking down at the older boy. "Yeah, I'm sure that's exactly what you did as Newbie."

Minho looked at Thomas carefully. "I was the _third_ Glader to come here, slinthead. Shut your hole until—"

And that did it.

Thomas didn't let him finish. He wasn't scared of this guy and he was fed up with his attitude. Thomas moved to get up, Minho's hand snapped out and grabbed his arm.

"Dude sit down. I'm just playin' with your head," he smiled for the first time. "It's too fun—you'll see when the next Newbie… Huh…" he trailed off, looking perplexed. "Guess there won't be another Newbie."

Thomas relaxed, and returned to a sitting position, surprised at how easily he'd been put back at ease. He thought of the girl and her note. "Guess not."

Minho squinted slightly, as if he was studying Thomas. "You saw the chick, right? Everybody says you probably know her or something." So everyone _was_ talking and speculating about him.

Thomas grew defensive. "I saw her. Fell into the box with her, looked her dead in the face. Doesn't really look familiar at all," he lied, feeling slightly guilty about it. Even it was only a small lie.

"Yeah. I heard about your _epic_ fall too." He glanced over at Thomas. "Is she hot?"

Thomas paused, feeling uncomfortable. He didn't think about girls like that, but he remembered that this one had been pretty. "Yeah, I guess she's hot."

"You guess? What do mean you guess? Either she is or she isn't."

Thomas paused again. This was the first time he was faced with this dilemma. Should he expose himself to this guy? What if he was a homophobe or something? He didn't want to freak the guy out. Or get punched, or something. But wait. Newt had said he and Minho had fooled around a couple of times, therefore, even if Minho _wasn't_ into guys and had simply been fooling with Newt because he was tired of wanking and couldn't have a girl, he was definitely not a homophobe.

"I don't…" Thomas hesitated not sure how to say it. Although he was confident with himself, he had never said it out loud and didn't know he would feel about it. "I don't think about girls like that."

Minho eyes widened and Thomas took it that he understood. Then the guy shrugged. "Eh… I figured," he said.

" _What?_ " Thomas was shocked, bit still relaxing a little. "You don't even _know_ me. Why would you think that of me?" Did Thomas unknowingly put off that vibe? Had everyone figured it out?

"Dude." He looked at Thomas, wearing a twisted grimace as if Thomas had just said the dumbest thing ever. "I saw the way you _ogled_ at me when you came out of the Box."

 _Shit._ Thomas felt his face redden. _So he'd noticed that_.

"Don't stress. I'm over it." He shrugged again and leaned back until he lay flat closing his eyes. He gave a robust stretch wincing a little, then lay quite still. They sat in silence for a moment. Thomas snatched the opportunity.

"So…" he asked cautiously. "Did you find anything out there?"

Minho's eye opened wide; he threw Thomas the same grimace as before. "Dude. That's usually the dumbest shuck-faced question you could ask a Runner." He closed his eyes again. "But not today."

"What do you mean?" Thomas dared to hope for information. _Please give me an answer_.

"Just wait till the fancy admiral gets back. I don't like repeating myself. Plus, he might not want you to hear it anyway."

Thomas didn't miss a beat. "If he's not the leader, why do you care what he wants?"

Minho opened his eyes. Then sat back up, crossing his legs under him and narrowing his eyes. "You think you're clever, don't you?"

Thomas ignored that. "At least tell me why you look so tired. Don't you run out there every day?"

Minho groaned. "Yeah, Green—sorry, Thomas, right? Yeah. I run out there every day. Let's just say I got a little excited and ran extra fast to get my tight ass back here."

"Why?" Thomas asked conversationally, as if he didn't desperately want to hear about what happened out in the Maze. But Minho didn't fall for it.

He threw his hands up. "Dude. I told you. Wait for General Alby."

Something in his voice lessened the blow, and Thomas made his final decision. He liked Minho. Not the way he liked Newt, but the way he liked Chuck.

"Okay, I'll shut up. Just make sure Alby lets me hear the news too."

Minho studied him for a second. "Okay, Thomas. You da boss."

Alby walked up a moment later with a big plastic cup full of water and handed it to Minho.

"About time," Minho said taking it. Then he gulped it down without taking a breath.

"Okay. Out with it," Alby said.

True to his word, Minho didn't point out that Thomas was still there, presumably because Alby hadn't said anything, more focused on obtaining the information than he was on not letting someone overhear it.

Minho struggled to stand, wincing with every move. His hold demeanor screamed exhaustion. Thomas wanted to assist him but feared any movement from him would alert Alby of his presence. But Minho balanced himself against the wall, still conveniently ignoring Thomas. "I found a dead one," he told Alby. "I found a dead Griever."


	13. 13

Thomas was enticed by the mentioned of a Griever. The nasty creature was terrifying to think about, but he wondered why finding a dead one was such a big deal. Had it never happened before?

Alby looked like someone had just told him he could fly. "This ain't no good time for jokes."

"I wouldn't believe me if I were you either. But trust me. I found it. A big fast nasty one."

 _It's definitely never happened before._

"You found a dead Griever?" Alby repeated, still sounding dubious.

" _Yes_." Minho's words were laced with annoyance. "A couple of miles out from here, out near the Cliff. I didn't touch it—wouldn't touch one if you gave me free trip out of this place—but I got _pretty_ close. Closer than I've ever been to one of the things. Probably as close as _anyone_ has ever been without gettin' stung or killed. I swear the thing looked dead as a doornail."

Alby looked out into the Maze. "Well… why didn't you bring it back with you?"

Minho gave Alby the same grimace he had given Thomas. "You been sippin' Frypan's saucy-sauce? Those things must weigh a ton, dude."

Alby persisted with questions. Thomas sat so still, he almost didn't dare breathe.

"What did it look like? Were the metal spikes in or out of its body? Was its skin still moist?"

Thomas was burning with question. Metal spikes? Moist skin? But he held his tongue. Alby, apparently, still hadn't realized he was hearing this.

"Slim it, man. You just gotta see it for yourself. It's… weird. If you wanna haul it now, we could probably make it back before the walls close."

Alby looked at his watch. "No. We don't need to take that chance. Better wait until tomorrow. Besides, you look like you're about to pass out. Go get some food and rest."

Minho righted himself from leaning on the wall and set out for the Homestead with a slight limp. He looked like every muscled was in pain.

Thomas felt a wave of disappointment. He had to admit, Minho did look like he deserved a rest and a meal, but he wanted to learn more.

Then Alby turned to Thomas, startling him; he thought Alby hadn't noticed him. "If you know something and ain't telling me…"

Thomas frowned in furry. He was sick of people of accusing him of knowing stuff. Wasn't that the problem in the first place? He _didn't_ know anything? He looked the young man square in the face and asked simply.

"Why do you hate me so much?"

The look that came over Ably's face was indescribable—part confusion, part anger, part shock. " _Hate_ you? I don't _hate_ you," he said, just as simply as Thomas had. "It just ain't a coincidence. You pop in here, then _the very next day_ we get a _girl_ with ominous fucking messages. We got Ben tryin' to kill you, dead Grievers. _Something_ is going on, and I ain't restin' till I figure it out."

"I don't _know_ anything." It felt good to put some heat into the words. "I don't even know where I _was_ three days ago, much less why Minho would find a dead thing called a Griever _or_ why one of your people would try to eat me. So back, off!"

Alby leaned back slightly, staring absently at Thomas for a second. Then he said. "Slim it, Thomas. Grow up and start thinkin'. Ain't got nothing to do with accusing nobody of nothin'. But if you remember anything, if somethin' even seems familiar, you better tell me. Promise."

"Yeah I guess but—"

"Promise." He said it with the same calm voice he had used on Ben in the woods.

Thomas paused. Alby was the only person around here that Thomas found remotely intimidating and when he used that tone…

"I promise."

At that, Alby walked away without another word.

ooo

Thomas found a tree in in the Deadheads, one of the nicer ones on the edge of the forest with plenty of shade. He dreaded going back to work with Winston and knew he needed to eat lunch, but he didn't want to be near anyone for as long as he could get away with it. Leaning back against the thick trunk, his wished for a breeze but didn't get one.

He'd just felt his eyelids droop when Chuck ruined his peace.

"Thomas! Thomas!" the boy shrieked as he ran toward him, pumping his arms and huffing, eyes face lit with excitement.

Thomas rubbed his eyes and groaned, he wanted nothing in the world more than a half-hour nap. It wasn't until Chuck stopped right in front of him, panting to catch his breath, that he finally looked up.

"What?"

Words fell from Chuck's mouth between his gasps. "Ben… Ben… he isn't… Ben isn't dead."

Fatigue? What was that? Thomas jumped to his feet. " _What?_ "

"He's… not dead. Baggers went to get him… arrow missed his brain… he's all patched up."

"You gotta be kidding me. I saw the shank…" He wasn't dead. Thomas didn't know what he felt most strongly: confusion, relief, or fear of a future attack.

"Well so did I," Chuck said "He's locked up in the Slammer… a huge bandage covering half his head."

"The Slammer? What do you mean?"

"The Slammer. That's the jail on the north side of the Homestead." Chuck pointed in that direction. "They threw him in it so fast, the Med-jacks had to patch him up in there."

Thomas rubbed his eyes. Guilt consumed him when he realized how he truly felt—he'd been relieved that Ben was dead, that he didn't have to worry about facing him again. "So what are they gonna do with him?"

"Already had a Gathering of the Keepers this morning. Unanimous decision. Banishment for trying to kill you."

"Banished? What does _that_ mean?" Thomas asked even though he had a pretty good idea.

And then Thomas saw perhaps the most disturbing thing he'd seen since he'd arrived at the Glade. Chuck didn't answer; he smiled. Smiled, despite the sinister sound of what he'd just announced.

ooo

"Come on," Newt said, taking Thomas's hand, smiling weakly at him. Thomas didn't feel like smiling at a time like this. But it was Newt, and Thomas couldn't help it when his lips twitched a little around the edges. They walked in silence, fingers laced, across the Glade, in plain view of everyone. Thomas eyes remained unerringly riveted on the East Door where every last Glader was gathering. But he still caught glimpses from the corners of his eyes. Some boys stared in awe, while other simply starred. Some boys frowned, and some smiled, but no one said anything. Mostly they were glanced at, then ignored, and Thomas realized. These guys had been here for _over three years_. He and Newt _couldn't_ be the only pair the Glade had ever seen. There was probably a few of them around here that he didn't know about. With that thought, he relaxed a little, then remembered what he was about to witness, and tensed right back up.

It still bothered Thomas how Chuck had smiled when breaking the news of Ben's banishment. After thinking about it since Chuck had told him, Thomas had become positive on what that meant. It was the only plausible explanation for the use of the word 'banish', and Thomas didn't know how he felt about it. From what he remembered seeing through the window and what he had been told, those creatures out there were vile, vicious, deadly, inexorable _monstrosities_. Surely no one deserved to be forced upon that? But's that's what they were doing. _They were kicking Ben out_. Throwing him out there with Grievers.


	14. 14

The other Gladers murmured their conversations in hushed tones, an intense feeling of dread hung over them like thick fog. Thomas held on tighter to Newt's hand. Waiting…

"Bring him out!" Alby shouted, startling Thomas out of his thoughts.

He looked around the Glade for a sign of Ben, his trepidation almost reaching its peak, as he wondered what the boy would do when he saw him.

From around the far side of the Homestead, three of the bigger boys appeared, literally dragging Ben along the ground. His clothes were tattered, barely hanging on. A thick, bloody bandage covered half his head and face. Refusing to put his feet down, or help the progress in any way, he seemed as dead as the time Thomas had seen him. Except for one thing.

His eyes were open, and they were wide in terror.

"Newt," Alby said in that strange calm commanding voice of his. "Bring out the pole."

Newt nodded, and Thomas reluctantly allowed him to remove his hand. Thomas didn't want to let him go. In a time like this, he felt empty and inconsolable without Newt beside him. But he was gone, moving for a small tool shed used for the Gardens. Thomas would have to cope alone.

He turned his focus back to Ben and the guards. The pale, miserable boy still made no effort to resist, letting them drag him across the dusty stone of the courtyard. When they reached the crowd, they pulled Ben to his feet in front of Alby, their leader, where Ben hung his head, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

"You brought this on yourself, Ben." Alby's tone suggested that he didn't want to do what he was doing. He turned his head and Thomas followed his gaze to see Newt walking back toward them, holding several aluminum poles, connecting the ends to make a shaft maybe twenty feet long. When he was finished, grabbed something odd-shaped on one of the ends and dragged the whole thing along toward the group. A shiver ran up Thomas's spine at the metallic scrape of the pole on the stone ground as Newt walked.

Thomas was horrified by the whole affair. He couldn't feeling responsible, even though he'd never done anything to provoke Ben.

Finally, Newt stepped up to Alby and handed over the end of the pole he was holding. Thomas could see the strange attachment now. A loop of rough leather, fastened to the metal with a massive staple. A large button snap revealed that the loop could be opened and closed, and its purpose became obvious.

It was a collar.

Thomas watched as Alby unbuttoned the collar then, wrapped it around Ben's neck; Ben finally looked up just as the loop of the leather snapped closed with a loud pop. Tears glistened in his eyes; dribbles of snot oozed from his nostrils. The Gladers looked on, not a word from any of them.

"Please, Alby," Ben pleaded in a shaky voice. "I swear if I weren't sick in the head from the Changing, I would've never tried to kill him. Please, Alby, _please_."

Alby didn't respond to Ben; he turned Ben around so that his back was to everyone and he faced the exit, then he pulled collar onto his neck making sure it was both firmly snapped and solidly attached to the long pole. He walked past Ben and along the pole, picking it up off the ground as he slid its length trough his palm and fingers. When he reached the end, he gripped it tightly and turned to face the crowd.

Be stood trembling, crying, a roughly cut collar of leather wrapped around his pale, scrawny neck, attached to the long pole that stretched from him to Alby, twenty feet away. The shaft of aluminum bowed in the middle, but only a little. Even from where Thomas was standing, it looked surprisingly strong.

Alby lifted his downcast eyes and spoke in a loud, almost ceremonious voice. "Ben of the Builders, you've been sentenced to Banishment for the attempted murder of Thomas the Newbie. The Keepers have spoken, and their word ain't changing. And you ain't coming back. Ever." A long pause. "Keepers take your places."

One by one, boys stepped out of the crowd and walking over to the pole; they grabbed it with both hands, gripped it as if readying for a tug-of-war match. Newt was among them, as was Minho, who Thomas now knew was the Keeper of the Runners. Winston the Butcher took his positon. Also amongst them… was Gally, and Thomas found himself curious. What was the Gally the Keeper of?

Once they were all in place—ten Keepers spaced evenly apart between Alby and Ben—the air grew silent.

" _Pleeeeeease!_ " Ben struggled with the tight collar around his neck, looking so terrified and pathetic that Thomas couldn't believe it was the same guy who had tried to bite his throat off the day before. And then Thomas realized… It wasn't.

And that did it.

"NO!" Thomas screamed with such force that he surprised himself. All eyes turned his way. There was total silence, and now that Thomas had their attention… He didn't know what to do with it. He stood frozen for a second. Shocked by his by his own outburst. But he knew that he couldn't stand by and let this happen. _Just gonna have to wing it._

He stepped out of the crowd running over to Ben's end of the pole.

"You can't do this," Thomas said. Ben looked surprised at the person who had come to his rescue. "This is _wrong_."

There was a long silence. So long that Thomas began to get a little uncomfortable. But he stood his ground. Even Ben was quiet, still clutching the collar, but no longer struggling. His chest was heaving, his eyes still wide and fearful, but now there was something else there as well. Hope.

Newt simply stared frozen expressionless, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. And Thomas realized that he probably couldn't, because surely nothing like this had ever happened before.

"Get out of the way, Greenie," Alby finally said, annoyance in his voice.

"No." Thomas said calmly but with a much force as when he'd said the word before. "I—"

"Move!" he yelled.

"No." Thomas realized that he was shaking and tried to stop himself, but simply couldn't manage to do so.

"Move! Or we'll throw you out with him!" Alby growled.

"No!" Thomas was just as loud now. "I can't let you do this."

" _You_ can't let _us?_ Who do you think you are, Greenie? The Keepers have spoken. Ben is Banished!"

" _I'm_ the guy he tried to kill!" Thomas pointed out. "Shouldn't _I_ have some say in his conviction?" There was silence again. Alby still looked angry, but he also looked like Thomas had stumped him with that question. Thomas could feel everyone's eyes on him, but he refused to look away from Alby. In the end the end _his_ word was final.

"He's got a point," Winston the Butcher said, his grip loosening on the pole. "Maybe we should have a Regathering." And Thomas felt his spirits lift to have _someone_ —even if it was creepy Winston—leaning toward his side. He also thought he could see Alby's determination wavering.

"Ben was messed up from the Changing when he attacked me. He doesn't deserve this," Thomas said softly now, trying to convince Alby.

"This shank doesn't even _understand_ the Changing," Gally spoke up, looking just as ugly and ferocious as ever. Thomas wanted to throw something at him.

"No. I don't. But I _do_ know that you _cannot_ exile him," Thomas said pointing at Ben and forcing his voice to remain calm, "for a crime he committed when he was _clearly_ delusional. Obviously he's rational now. You cannot _murder_ him—because that's what this is. This isn't banishment; this is murder. Those monsters are going to _kill_ him and you know it. If you do this, your actions are just as bad, if not _worse_ than the one you've convicted him of." Thomas could see his words winning over more of the Keepers. But still not Alby. And _still_ not Gally.

"He _is_ rational, Alby. We saw that at the Gathering." Newt spoke up, Thomas almost smiled. If anyone could change Alby's mind it was Newt. "We could make him tell us about his Changing. Obviously there's a reason he wanted to kill Thomas." Alby was silent again, but Thomas could see that Newt's word had affected him. He would be quiet now and just let Alby think about it. It was so quiet Thomas could hear the animal in the distance.

"Newt, let him out," Alby sighed and Thomas lightly sighed in relief and Ben fell to his knees, tears of joy rolling down his face. "Keepers to the Homestead. We need to discuss this." He turned and walked away. Most of the Keepers followed him. Minho gave Thomas a smile and a nod before turning to go with them. Gally looked _murderous_ , glaring at Thomas. And Thomas glared back. The fact that he would rather exile Ben than listen to reason, simply because he didn't like the boy's defender made Thomas hate him even more. Gally turned and practically stomped away, his hands balled into tight fists.

Newt clapped him on the shoulder, smiling at him. Then he set to releasing Ben. The other Gladers, now that there was nothing to see, slowly dispersed, talking in low murmurs about what had just transpired.

As soon as he was free, Ben surprised Thomas by jumping up and hugging him. "Thank you so much, man," he sobbed. "I'm glad I didn't kill you." He cried into Thomas's shoulder for a moment. Then there was a great grinding and rumbling, as the walls of the Glade closed.

Ben looked at Thomas with his wet eyes, smiling, clearly grateful to be on this side of them.


	15. 15 (M)

It was concluded that because he had not been in his right mind at the time and was clearly remorseful for his actions, Ben would not receive a conviction, but that night, Thomas found _himself_ in the Slammer, instead. It was his punishment for interrupting the Banishing. He had spent the remainder of that day in there with no food—though Ben and Chuck had both snuck him a piece of bread, unaware that the other had done so—and would stay in there until morning without any as well. Thomas couldn't blame them. He didn't deserve this, but Alby had to keep order. He had to show the other Gladers that they couldn't do and say whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. Therefore, Thomas had been put in the Slammer.

It stood in an obscure place between the Homestead and the north Glade wall, hidden behind thorny, raggedy bushes that looked like they hadn't been trimmed in ages. It was a big block of roughly cut concrete, with one tiny, barred window and a wooden door that was locked with a menacing rusty metal latch, like something out of the Dark Ages. There was nothing inside of it, but a cushion-less chair wooden, with one leg obviously—probably purposely—shorter the others.

There was a knock on the door, snatching Thomas from his thoughts. Newt's head was in the glassless window. "I come bearing food and water." Thomas smiled at him.

"I'm not really hungry," Thomas said getting up from the chair he had propped up against the wall so I couldn't fall over, "but that water would be great."

"What do you mean you're not hungry?" Newt frowned. "You haven't eaten since lunch."

"No." Thomas confessed. "Chuck brought some bread. Then about three hours later Ben brought me some."

"Those bloody buggers," Newt mumbled as he passed the water through the whole. "Well. I can't be too mad at them. I'm doing the same thing." He smiled. Then Thomas remembered that there was something he wanted to talk Newt about.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" Thomas whispered, staring at his dark reflection on the surface of the water. He braced himself for the gentle let down but…

"Of _course_ I will," Newt said. And he unlocked the door. Thomas beamed. He placed his cup of water in the chair and Newt sat the chunk of bread next to it.

"That's clever," Newt said, pointing at the chair propped against the wall.

They stood there staring sheepishly at each other, Newt scratching the back of his neck, then somehow, they found themselves on the hard floor, shoes removed, in the spoon positon, with Newt on the inside.

Thomas found that he like cuddling with Newt immensely. Thomas was sure that his erection could be felt pressing into Newt's bum, because he could feel it himself and he liked that as well. But Newt didn't mention it, so he didn't move, he simply lay stroking Thomas's arm.

"I'm gonna have to leave early in the morning before the others wake up so that neither of us will get in trouble for me being in here," Newt said.

"Okay." And there was short moment of silence.

"Newt," Thomas hesitated, his voice unnecessarily low. "There's something I want to talk about," he hesitated again and Newt was patient. "But I need you to promise not tell Alby." Newt froze, ceasing the pleasurable stroking. Then he rolled over, a placed their foreheads together, giving Thomas a furtive look in the dark room.

"Tommy. If this is serious… I may _have_ to tell him," he responded, his voice just as low.

"It's not as serious as it's gonna sound. I swear. Just… promise."

Newt look at him, frowning as if he were thinking on whether or not he should do this. "I promise."

Thomas sighed, looking down at Newt's chin. "I lied when I said I didn't recognize the girl." Thomas said it as if he were confessing to breaking a cherished possession. And he felt Newt instantly tense up. He was afraid to look at him.

"Thomas that _is_ serious. You have to tell him," he said, still pointlessly whispering.

Thomas looked up to Newt's wide eyes. "It's not. I don't _remember_ her. She just looks familiar. Like _maybe_ I knew her."

"But that _is serious_ ," Newt persisted. "If you feel like that then you probably _did_ know her. And why would they send you two here back to back like that when you know each other? When they've _never_ sent two people in the same month before? And then a _girl_ on top of that."

"It's… just… Forget about it." Thomas rolled over and folded his arms signaling the end of the conversation. Thomas regretted telling him. With Newt's reaction to that he didn't want to say anything about his strange desire to become a Runner. He had thought he could talk to Newt but evidently he couldn't.

"Tommy," Newt said, placing his hand on Thomas's shoulder, but Thomas shrugged it off and scooted away, putting about two feet between them. For the first time, he didn't want Newt to touch him.

There was a solid minute of silence and then, "I'm sorry." He heard Newt getting up to leave, and almost panicked. He rolled over and stopped him, by laying a hand his chest. Newt sat his legs straightened out and leaned back on his hands looking as confused as Thomas felt.

"No… I don't want you to leave, I just—" He didn't know. A part of him _did_ want Newt to go but another part of him wanted to lie next to him on this uncomfortable floor forever. "Just... just…" And Thomas kissed him because he wanted to and he was confused.

Thomas shifted to sit in Newt's lap, without breaking lips, straddling his thighs, as he felt Newt lips move in return. He cradled Newt's face in his hand, deepening the kiss. He could feel his heart quickening as it always did when Newt touched him. Newt slid his hand up Thomas's back, pulling Thomas down and on top of him, then immediately rolled them over. Newt used one hand to prop himself up beside Thomas head, the other gently stroking Thomas cheek. His hand just _barely_ touched, making Thomas skin tingle, as he stared in Thomas eyes with those green eyes.

The hand left Thomas's face slowly, slowly sliding down Thomas's neck and down his chest, Newt's eyes never leaving Thomas's. He stopped at the lip of Thomas's jeans. Thomas inhaled sharply staring into those eyes, and didn't stop him when he unfastened Thomas's jeans.

Thomas gasped in shock we felt the warm hand around his stiff shaft. Then Newt was pumping him and kissing him. Was this happening? Newt's hand felt amazing. Thomas couldn't kiss properly for gasping. Newt smiled at him in amusement and went on Thomas's neck instead.

"Oh, God," Thomas moaned, into Newt's shoulder. Thomas couldn't remember experiencing something like this before and so it made the sensations even better. He lifted his hips a little and let Newt pull his jeans and underwear down, wincing when the skin of his bottomed touched the cool floor of the Slammer. He winced for a completely different reason when he felt warm heat around his cock.

Newt was sucking him.

"Oh fuck." Thomas squirmed. He looked down and found the hottest sight he'd ever seen. Newt's green eyes looking up at him, his mouth wrapped around Thomas, cheeks sucked in. "Oh fuck." Thomas planted his hand on the back of Newt's head and rolled his head back in pleasure when Newt went all the way down on him, taking Thomas to the hilt. Thomas's pubic hairs were brushing against Newt's nose. Newt stayed there for a second, wiggling his tongue around the bottom of Thomas's shaft.

" _Oh God!_ " Newt did some kind of swallowing motion and Thomas was coming. Hard. _Already?_ Thomas didn't know how but he knew coming so soon was shameful. His memory wipe seriously baffled him.

Newt sucked all of it up and swallowed, sliding off of Thomas with a light pop.

Thomas lay there panting, looking down at him. "That was amazing… Oh God… Wow!" He ran his fingers through Newt's hair as the boy made his way up to Thomas's mouth. Thomas let Newt kiss him. He could taste himself in Newt's mouth and found that it didn't disgust him not one bit.

Slowly, without breaking their kiss, Thomas moved his hands down to Newt's waistline. Newt broke the kiss and stared sincerely at Thomas with those green eyes. "I'm not gonna say I don't want it but… you don't have to do that," he whispered. And Thomas could tell that he meant it, that he wouldn't be upset in the slightest if he didn't receive reciprocation.

"I want to," Thomas whispered back. Newt pecked his lips again, then he lay down next to Thomas and lay down next to him, pulling his pants down his thighs, his solid dick popping out and standing tall. He propped himself on his hands and smiled at Thomas.

Thomas moved over. He was a little nervous. He leaned in licked the throbbing pink tip.

"Mmmm," Newt moaned and rolled his head back. Pleased by that sound, Thomas licked it again. "Ssss, oh…" Thomas smiled then gulped the whole thing in like Newt had.

Bad decision.

Thomas gagged. After catching a bit of water of bread in his mouth and swallowing it (glad he caught it, _that_ would've been humiliating) he looked up at Newt sheepishly, certain that his face was red from embarrassment.

"It's okay," Newt smiled down at him. Thomas took the base of the cock in his hand and worked at the top half with his mouth. Newt seemed to be enjoying this all the same and Thomas discovered that he liked the thought that it was _him_ providing the pleasure. _He_ was making Newt make those sounds.

Growing more confident, and enjoying the feel of the appendage in his mouth, Thomas moved his hand and slowly managed to take the whole shaft in, smelling the oddly pleasant musky wooden smell of Newt's pubes. He could feel the other boy twitching in his throat.

"Mmmmmm, bloody hell. That's it, Tommy." Thomas looked up at him. Newt was panting. "Oh, that it, Tommy. Oh, Tommy, bloody hell!" Thick, hot liquid shot down Thomas's throat and suddenly, Thomas wasn't so ashamed anymore. He wasn't expecting it and almost choked, but Newt was panting with eyes close so he didn't catch it. Thomas simply popped his head off, working Newt the rest of the way with his hand, and coughed a few time.

He'd just given someone a blowjob. And he'd liked it.

ooo

The next morning, dawn had barely creeped through the sky before someone tapped Thomas shoulder and he opened his eyes to see Newt staring down at him.

"Get up, ya lug."

"Yeah, good morning to you." Thomas stretched. "What time is it? I thought you were leaving."

"I did. Two hours ago, you didn't stir." Thomas stood and stepped out the Slammer, glad to be out of that place though he was proud of why he'd been thrown in there.

Thomas had actually slept well last night, even on the hard floor of the Slammer. And for once, he was glad for his selective memory, because even if he _had_ done it before, last night, he had experienced an orgasm for the first time all over again, and it had been indescribable. Memories of what they had done ran through Thomas mind. Every touch and caress had been magical. He smiled. The sensitive part of Newt's body had felt glorious in Thomas's mouth and Newt's mouth had felt even better on his. Thomas didn't know how life could get any better than that. Thomas could still feel his lips tingling

Newt led them in a slow pace around the Homestead. "Last night was wonderful. If I didn't know any better, I'd _swear_ you'd done that before, because you did some _things_ with your tongue," Newt said with a light smirk.

Thomas blushed at the ground. "I was only mimicking what you did to me," he mumbled with a shrug, flattered by the compliment. "Well you caught on, quickly." He gave Thomas shoulder a playful shove with his own. "Okay," he huffed. "Down to business. I'm gonna put you with the Track-hoes today. See if that suits your fancy more than slicing up piggies and such."

"What's that?"

"It's what we call the guys workin' their arses off in the gardens." He nodded in that direction. "Tilling, weeding, planting and such."

"Who's the Keeper?"

"Zart. Nice guy, s'long as you don't sluff on the job, that it. He's the big one that stood in the front last—" But before he could finish his sentence the rumble of the walls opening for the day cut him off. He looked off toward the East Door, remembering how he had saved a guy's life. He smiled again, noticing Minho stretching by the door.

"Tell me about the Runners," Thomas said suddenly stopping to turn to Newt.

Newt paused, looking confused. "The Runners? Why?"

"Just wondering," he said, still set on not telling him after his reaction about the girl last night. Thomas hadn't thought about their little disagreement until now. At the time he had felt so bothered by it. But now—perhaps it was the blowjob that did it-Thomas felt his emotions and reactions had been petty. Of course Newt had felt like that information should be passed to Alby. He was the deputy. That's what he did. But even so. He had promised not to. Thomas leaned in and kissed him.

"Trying to coerce answers out of me?" Newt joked. "Well, it's working." He looked over toward Minho. "The best of the best, those guys. Have to be. Everything depends on them."

"Why aren't you one?

"Well thanks for compliment, Tommy," Newt smiled. "Was till I hurt my leg a few months back. Hasn't been the bloody same ever since." He reached down and rubbed his right ankle absently, a brief look of pain flashing across his face. The look made Thomas think it was more from the memory, not any actual pain he still felt.

"How'd you do it?"

"Runnin' from the bloody Grievers, what else? Almost got me, it did." He paused. "Still gives me the chills thinkin' I might've gone through the Changing." He saw the vacant expression on Newt's face took his hand, stroking his thumb. Newt smiled down at him.

"What _is_ the Changing anyway? What changes? Does everyone go psycho like Ben and start trying to kill people?"

"Ben was way worse than most. But I thought you wanted to talk about the Runners?" Newt's tone suggested that he was given Thomas the option. Pick one. Thomas decided on the Runners. He would get the Changing information out of Newt later.

"I do. Go on."

"Like I said. Best of the best."

"So what do you do? Test everybody to see how fast they are?"

Newt shook his head dismissively. "How fast you can run is only part of it, very small art actually."

"What do you mean?"

"When I say the best of the best, I mean at everything. To survive the bloody Maze, you gotta be smart, quick, strong… Gotta be a decision maker, know the right amount of risk of to take. Can't be reckless or timid." Newt stretched. "It awful out there. I don't miss it."

"I thought you said the Griever only come out at night."

"Yeah, usually."

"Then why's it so terrible out there?" What _else_ didn't he know about?

"Pressure. Stress. Trying to get us out of here. Worryin' about those bloody Maps. The worst part is, you're always scared you might not make it back. A normal maze would be difficult enough—but it _changes_ ev'ry night… couple of brainfarts and you're spendin' the night with vicious beasts." Newt looked down at him again. "You want to be Runner." It was question. It was a statement and Thomas could tell by his tone that he didn't approve.

Thomas's eyes widened. "How did you bloody guess that?" he asked, using Newt exact words Newt had used on him.

Newt smiled and shrugged. "Too much interest. I'm sorry, Tommy, but you can forget it. No one's ever become a Runner in their first month, much less their first week. Got a lot of provin' to do before we'll recommend you to the Keeper."

Maybe Thomas could've been a bit more discreet. Well. Newt had figured it out now and seemed to be taking it better than the girl thing. Maybe Thomas should've lead with this last night.

"Newt. I can't pull weeds all day—I'll go nuts. I don't have a clue what I did before they dumped me in here but my gut tells me that I'm supposed to be a Runner. I can do it."

Newt smiled and gave Thomas a kiss, soft and sensual, earning them a few stares from the passing Gladers.

"No one said you couldn't. But give it a rest for now."

Thomas felt a surge of impatience. "But—"

"Listen, Tommy. Start stompin' around here yappin' about how you're too good to work like a peasant, how you're all nice and ready to be a Runner and you'll make plenty of enemies. Drop it for now."

Making enemies was the last thing Thomas wanted but still. He wanted to be a Runner and he thought Newt could be a _lot_ of help if he tried. But since he wasn't, Thomas decided on another direction. "Fine. I'll talk to Minho about it."

"Ha," Newt spat sarcastically. "That's s'posed to be me outsmarted innit? Nice try love. The Gatherin' elects Runners and you've got more than me to convince." Thomas could see Newt was becoming irritated, but still he persisted.

"For all you guys know, I could be really good at it. It's a waste of—"

Newt planted another kiss on him. Firm, shutting him up. He cradled Thomas's head in his hands, stooping slightly to look Thomas straight in the eye, locking green to silver. _"Listen,_ Tommy. You listen good and proper. Stop this. _Right now_." He gave Thomas's head a firm shake. "Stop before others hear about it. That's not how things work around here and our whole existence depends on _working._ Order. That's the reason we're all sane around here because we work our arses off and maintain _order._ Without that this place would be pandemonium. Now _drop_ it." And he dropped his arms, straightening back up, giving Thomas a stern look.

Thomas could tell that Newt was done with the conversation and knew it was time to shut up. "Yeah" was all he said.

Newt reached out and cupped Thomas chin, his expression less severe. "Let's make a deal."

Thomas felt his hopes rise. "What?"

"You keep your mouth shut, and I'll suggest you as a Runner as soon as you show me clout. And hey, with that show you put on yesterday, you've already got a couple of points."

Thomas hated the idea of waiting, not knowing how long it would be. "That's a crappy deal."

Newt raised his eyebrows.

Thomas sighed. "Deal."

Newt smiled and dropped his hand, kissing Thomas. Thomas was beginning to notice that Newt was a very physical person, all of the touches and cute kisses. And Thomas had to admit that he liked it.

ooo

That morning, Thomas finally met the infamous Frypan, if only from a distance. The guy was too busy trying to feed breakfast to an army of starving Gladers. He couldn't been more than sixteen years old, but he had a full beard and hair sticking out all over the rest of his body, as if each follicle were trying to escape the confines of his food –smeared clothes. He didn't seem like the most sanitary guy in the world to oversee the cooking, in Thomas's opinion. He made a mental note to watch out for nasty black hairs in his future meals.

He and Newt had just joined Chuck for breakfast at a picnic table right outside the kitchen when Ben saddled up with a tray of food, his head bandaged.

"Can I join you?" He looked at Thomas as if it were his word that counted, but Thomas looked at the other two, then so did he. They both nodded.

"Sure." Thomas smiled.

"I just wanted to come over and—"

"Don't apologize again," Thomas said a little tired of it. The boy had already done it _three_ times.

"Okay no more apologies," the boy said, his hands held up in mock surrender. He opened his mouth to speak again.

 _"Or_ thanks," Thomas added.

The boy smiled. "You got me." A large group of Gladers got up and ran toward the West Door, talking excitedly about something.

"What's going on?" Thomas asked, surprising himself at how nonchalantly he said it. New developments in the Glade had just become a part of life.

Newt shrugged as he dug into his eggs. "Just seein' off Minho and Alby—they're goin' to look at that dead Griever."

"Hey," Ben said, staring over at them. "I've been thinking about that."

"Oh," Chuck said. "You've been thinking about something other than kissing Thomas's shoes?"

Ben glared at him, clearly fighting a smile. "Oh ha, ha," he said his voice leaking sarcasm. "That was so funny I think bruised my spleen." But he broke out into a smile anyway. Thomas couldn't help thinking that maybe this guy was actually okay when he wasn't trying to _murder_ anyone.

"What's up?" Newt asked curiously.

"Well, they found a dead Griever right?"

"Thanks for that bit of information." Newt playfully punching him in the shoulder. Ben smiled again and punched him back.

 _Yeah,_ Thomas thought. _Maybe this guy's okay._

"Yeah," Ben continued. "It's dead but who _killed_ it?"

And Thomas had to admit. That was a good question.


	16. 16

Thomas spent the morning with the Keeper of the Gardens, "working his arse off," as Newt would've said it. Zart was the tall, black-haired kid who stood at the front of the front of the pole during Ben's Banishment. He also, for some odd reason, had the lingering smell of sour milk. He didn't say much, but showed Thomas the ropes until he could start working on his own. Weeding. Pruning an apricot tree. Planting squash and zucchini seeds. Picking veggies. Thomas didn't love it, and mostly ignored the other boys working alongside him, but he didn't hate it nearly as much as working in the Blood House.

Thomas and Zart were weeding a long row of young corn when Thomas decided that it was a good time to get some answers. This Keeper seemed very approachable.

"So, Zart."

The Keeper glanced up at him, then resumed his work. "Yeah, Greenie, what you want?"

"How many Keepers are there?

"Well. There's the Builders, the Sloppers, Runners, Baggers, Slicers, Map-makers, Cooks, Med-jacks, oh… the Track-hoes of course. I don't know, a few more, maybe. I pretty much keep to myself and my own around here."

Most of the words were self-explanatory, but Thomas wondered about a couple of them. "What's a Slopper? He knew that was what Chuck did, but his friend never wanted to talk about it—refused to actually.

"That's for shanks who can't do nothing else. They clean the toilets, the showers, the kitchen, the Blood House after a slaughter… everything. Spend one day with those shanks—that'll cure any thoughts of going that direction."

Thomas felt a pang of guilt for Chuck—sorry for him.

"What about the Baggers?" he asked as he yanked out a huge weed, clumps of dirt swaying on the roots. "I know they care of the decease, it can't happen often, can it?"

"It doesn't. They act as guards and poh-lice too. Their just called Baggers," he shrugged. "A lot of Gladers have more than one job."

Thomas had more questions—lots more. Chuck and everyone else around the Glade never wanted to give his answers. But Thomas suddenly didn't want to talk anymore. For some reason thoughts of that stupid _girl_ had popped into his head, and the dead Griever, which should've been a good thing but everyone acted like it was anything but.

Newt was right. Without work, everyone would probably go crazy.

So he just worked.

ooo

By the time midafternoon arrived, Thomas was ready to collapse from exhaustion—all that bending over and crawling around on your knees in the dirt was awful. Blood House, Gardens: Two strikes.

 _Runner,_ he thought as he went on break. _Just let me be a Runner_. Once again he thought about how absurd it was that he wanted it so badly. But even though he didn't understand it, or where it came from, the desire was undeniable. It was just the same as his feeling for Newt.

And with that thought, Thomas headed for the kitchen for some food and water, his mind consumed with his and Newt's night all over again. He sighed, discovering that he was anticipating the moment it would happened again—fantasizing about it. Maybe they could take things further. Thomas was curious as to how it would feel to have Newt length inside of him. Or to be inside of Newt. He discovered that thoughts of either one turned him on immensely.

Moments later he bit into apple, plopping down next to Chuck. Instantly noticing that Newt was there too, but he sat alone, his forehead creased with heavy lines, his eyes bloodshot. All of Thomas's emotions were immediately replaced with concern as he crawled over to the boy, who was now chewing his nails, something Thomas had never seen him do before.

"Stop," Thomas said, gently taking Newts hand and holding it to prevent further chewing. Thomas's face was now just creased as Newt in concern for him. He softly asked, "What's

wrong?"

Newt looked at him anxiety in those deep green eyes. "Everything," he replied, looking at his feet. Thomas eyes widened as he fell silent for so long that Thomas almost pressed him to continue. "That bloody girl keeps groanin' and saying all kinds of weird stuff, but won't wake up—Med-jacks doing their best to feed her bust she's eating less all the time. Something is bad about the whole bloody thing. And on top of that," Newt looked towards one of the entrances to the Maze, "Minho and Alby should've been back hours ago."

For the first time, Thomas realized how much pressure being deputy must be. He thought of all the things Alby had Newt do around here. And what if something _did_ happen to Alby? Newt would take his place. The thought of that was stressing _him_ out; he could only imagine the emotions that caused the expression on Newt's face now. Thomas looked toward the same exit, Newt's concern for Minho and Alby as well having rubbed off on him.

He wanted to just take Newt away from it all so he didn't have to worry about _anything._ He wanted to lie Newt across his stomach and message his back until all of his stress vanished, never to reappear. Then Thomas would lay there and let Newt do _whatever_ he wanted with him. Once, again, Thomas wondered what it would be like to bottom—to actually have Newt _inside_ of him. _Surely_ that would make Newt feel better, if only for a moment?

But before Thomas knew it he was back at work, pulling up weeds again, counting down the minutes until he'd be free of the Gardens. He glanced constantly at the West door the entire time.

Newt had said they were supposed to have come back by noon, just enough time for them to get to the dead Griever, explore for an hour or two, and then return. No wondered he'd looked so upset. When chuck offered up that maybe they were just exploring and having some fun, Newt had given him a stare so harsh Thomas thought Chuck might spontaneously combust.

He'd never forget the next look that came over Newt's face. When Thomas had suggested for Newt and some others to go into the Maze and search for their friends. Net's expression had changed to outright horror and Thomas didn't like it. It had gradually passed, and he'd explained that sending out search parties was forbidden, lest even more people be lost, but there was no mistaking the fear that had crossed his face.

Newt was terrified of the Maze.

Whatever happened to him out there—maybe even related to his ankle injury—had been awful. Thomas had wanted to ask about it but he also didn't want to make him relive the memory.

Thomas tried not to think about it, as he put his focus back on yanking weeds.

ooo

The Runners had returned at their normal time, and Thomas had grown more and more restless as he'd watched Newt run door to door, watching as they entered the Glade, not bothering to hide his panic. But Alby and Minho never showed up. Thomas had had forced him to stop by taking hold of his hand. He'd also stopped him from chewing at his nails a couple of times. Newt forced the Gladers to go on and get some of Frypan's hard earned dinner, but when prompted by Thomas refused to stop watching for the missing duo and eat himself. Thomas had insisted he not be left alone. No one said it, but Thomas knew it wouldn't be long before the doors closed.

After a while, Chuck had found them, standing at the West Door. Newt pacing, running his hands through his hair.

"Where are they?" Newt said, his voice thin and strained.

Thomas was touched that Newt cared so much about them—as they were his own kin. "Why don't we send out a search party?" he suggested again. It seemed so stupid to sit here and worry themselves to death when they could go out there and _find_ them.

"Bloody hell!" Newt screamed, causing Chuck to jump. "We can't! Okay? Don't say it again!" Thomas's eyes widened. He knew that Newt had only snapped because he was worried and frustrated. But that had still hurt. Even as he thought it, Newt was apologizing.

"I'm sorry, Tommy." He came over and kissed him, putting their foreheads together. "I'm just worried. That's all." Thomas swore he could see tears forming in Newt's eyes.

"I know. I just—I feel like we should do something," Thomas said.

"You don't get it. There's nothing we can do—not when the doors are about to close. Going out there with those things is _death._ You said it yourself and we all know it. We would just be throwing more lives away."

Thomas looked over at Chuck, who seemed as pale-faced as Newt.

"Newt won't say it, so I will. They should've been back by now and they're not. That's means they're dead. Minho's too smart to get lost. Impossible."

Newt put his hand on Thomas's shoulder then let it fall to his side, tears finally falling from his eyes. Thomas pulled him into his arms and held him, his head under the taller boy's chin.

"Door close in two minutes," Newt said, a statement so succinct and final it seemed to hang in the air like a burial shroud in a puff of wind. Then he removed himself from Thomas's arms walked away hunched over, quiet.

Thomas shook his head and stared into the Maze. His chest ached at the thought of them out there, killed by the horrendous creature he'd seen through the window his first morning in the Glade.

Then a flicker of movement to the left caught his eyes. Something stirred inside the Maze, down the long corridor in front of him.

"Newt," Thomas called quietly, and though his voice was small Newt and Chuck were at his side as if they had waiting for a signal, staring down the long corridor with him where two forms took shape, stumbling along the alley toward the Door. Thomas's relief quickly let way to panic as his eyes focused and he realized Minho had one of Alby's arms draped across his shoulder, practically dragging the boy along behind him. Minho looked up and saw the three of them. Thomas knew his eyes must be bulging out of his head.

"They got him!" Minho shouted, his voice strangled and weak with exhaustion. Every step he took seemed like it could be his last. Thomas knew he should run out there and help, but the rule about leaving the Glade was wedged into his mind.

A loud boom sounded from all directions, startling Thomas, and breaking his focus on Minho and Alby. He looked around as the loud crunching and grinding sound permeated the air, as the right wall rumbled across the ground, spitting dirt and rocks as it moved. The Doors were closing for the night.

But they were a hundred feet away.

The right wall was closing fast, seeming to quicken its pace the more Thomas willed it to slow down.

He looked back towards them. With Alby's weight they would never make it. Not without help, Thomas thought. Newt's hand closed around Thomas's wrist as if he were reading his mind.

"Don't do it Tommy," he said forcefully. But Thomas, his resolve solid, wrenched his arm in a downward motion—which somehow he remembered was the correct way to free himself from a stronger person's grip. He felt Newt's hand on his shirt, but it didn't make purchase before Thomas was bolting down the corridor.


	17. 17

" _What are you doing?!_ " he heard Minho yell. But Thomas was closing the distance between them. He wrapped Alby's other arm around his shoulder, and with the combined effort, they moved faster. But as Thomas looked up, he knew he had miscalculated. He hadn't considered the time it would take him to _get_ to Minho and Alby, but simply measured the distance as if he were already standing with them. He now knew that that had been a grave error. _Couple of brainfarts and you're spending the night with vicious beasts._ The words tumbled across Thomas's mind as he saw the door was now half closed. And for the first time, Thomas grew doubtful. Maybe he didn't have what it took to be a Runner.

"Come on. We can make it!" he grunted in defiance to his own thoughts, his face twisted with effort, muscles already screaming, as he dragged Alby across the ground. Twenty feet left.

"No we can't," Minho said sadly, though he too was still tugging with all of his effort. Ten feet. Other Gladers had now gathered around Chuck and Newt. Five feet. Thomas could see their wide eyed expressions through a small gap. Two feet. Newt fell to his knees, his arms limp, his face contorted with tears as the door closed between them.

For several seconds, Thomas felt like the world has frozen in place. A thick silence followed the thunderous rumble of the Doors closing, and a veil of darkness seemed to cover the sky, as if even the sun had been frightened away by what lurked in the maze. Twilight had fallen. And the mammoth walls looked like enormous tombstones in a weed-infested cemetery for giants.

"Thomas," Minho said, as the two of them slowly slid Alby down the wall into a sitting position, "if you think it was brave coming out here, you're the shuckiest shuck-face shuck there ever was. You're as good as dead. Just like us."

Thomas felt his face heat up. He had at least expected a little gratitude. "I couldn't just stand there and watch you struggle, so you're _welcome_. I was trying to help." Thomas wanted to black his eye and mess up that pretty face.

Minho forced a bitter laugh, then plopped on the ground beside Alby. Thomas took a closer look at the unconscious boy and realized their leader was on the edge of death. His usually dark skin was losing color fast and his breaths were quick and shallow.

Hopelessness rained down on Thomas. "What happened?" he asked, trying to put aside his anger. And fear.

"Don't wanna talk about," Minho said as he checked Alby's pulse and bent over to listen to his chest. "Let's just say the Grievers can play dead really well."

"So… he was… bitten? Stung or whatever? Is he going to go through the Changing?"

"You've got a lot to learn," was all Minho said.

Thomas wanted to scream. He knew he had a lot to learn—that was why he was asking questions! "Is he going to die?" he forced himself to say calmly.

"Since we didn't make it back in, probably. Could be dead in an hour. I don't know how long it takes if you don't get the Serum. Of course, we'll be dead too, so don't get all weepy for him. We'll all be dead pretty soon." He said so matter-of-factly, Thomas could hardly process the meaning of the words.

But fast enough, the dire reality of the situation began to hit Thomas, and his insides turned to rot. "We're really going to die…" Thomas said, a wave of terror crashing over him. But as he felt it, another wave of determination overcame it. He would do everything to survive the night. That's all they had to do. Survive the night.

A thought of hope sprang into Thomas mind. "But what about Ben? And Gally? And others who've been stung and survived?"

Minho glared up at him. "They made it back to get the Serum," he said impatiently.

Thomas wondered about the mention of a serum, but had too many other questions to get out first. "But I thought Grievers only came out at night? So they had to be out here at night to get stung."

"You're _wrong_ shank. They _always_ come out at night. That doesn't mean they _never_ come out in the day."

Thomas wouldn't allow himself to give in to Minho's hopelessness. He was not going down without a fight.

Minho stood and grabbed Alby's arms, then nodded toward his feet. "Grab those smelly suckers. Let's carry him over to the Door. Give 'em one body that's easy to find in the morning."

Thomas couldn't believe how _morbid_ a statement that was. "Get a grip of yourself!" he screamed. "We have to at least _try_ to survive."

"There's nothing we can do but run, and those things are fast as bulls—we're not going to get very far. Now come on and grab his legs."

Wincing at the growing cramps in his gut, Thomas walked over and lifted Alby's feet as he was told. They half carried, half dragged the almost-lifeless body a few feet over to the vertical crack of the door, where Minho propped Alby up against the wall in the same sitting position as before. Alby's chest rose and fell with struggled breaths, and his skin was drenched in sweat; he looked like he wouldn't last much longer.

"Where was he bitten?" Thomas asked. "Can you see it?"

"They don't _bite_ you they prick you, and no we can't see it you—you just have to see them to know what I'm talking about." Minho folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

For some reason, Thomas thought the word prick sounded a lot worse than _bite_.

"Why didn't they get you?"

"There was no _they_. There was just the one we thought was dead. It went nuts and stung Alby, but then ran away." Minho looked back into the Maze, which was now almost completely dark with nighttime.

Thomas looked up at the enormous walls covered in thick vines—determination had finally triggered his problem-solving mode. If they could get to the top, they could walk over and climb back down into the Glade. Better yet, they would probably be able to see the way out... But it was getting dark. Maybe not. _And_ they had an unconscious Alby with them…

"Can we climb these?" He looked over at Minho, who jumped slightly as if he had been snapped from his thoughts. He stared blankly at Thomas as if he didn't know who the boy was, and Thomas starred back. After a few seconds Thomas frowned. He was sure Minho had heard him. They were standing three feet apart. But he decided to repeat himself since Minho was still staring vacantly at him.

"Can we—"

Then, abruptly, Minho was kissing him, his tongue thrust seductively down Thomas's throat. Thomas kissed back impulsively, grabbing Minho's hips and pulling him closer. He could feel the blood already rushing to his pants. Then he remembered that this person was not Newt and he instantly pushed the boy away.

"What—"

"Do you wanna fuck me?" Minho asked conversationally, looking completely serious. All fear from to situation jumped out of Thomas like it was a skydiver and he was the plane. Confusion was the only passenger left.

" _What?_ "

"Come on, dude. Right here. Right now. Against this wall," he gestured, twitching with fear and talking fast. "I'll even let you top. I'll let you shove your dick far up my ass you'll feel the bottom of my stomach. I just… I don't wanna die a virgin."

Thomas was so stunned he was speechless. He had thought that those kind of feeling for this boy was gone, but after that kiss and standing there looking at him with his gorgeous face and broad chest in one of the tight shirts that he _always_ wore… Faced with the opportunity, Thomas found himself considering it. This boy was beautiful. Thomas would _love_ to touch the body up under that shirt. And topping him sounded _very_ appealing.

But this boy was not Newt and they were not going to die if he could help it. This wasn't the time for something like that anyway.

"We're not going to die," Thomas said defiantly. "Not if I can help it. Now can we climb these?" he asked as if Minho hadn't spoken.

The boy sighed in frustration. "You really think we've never tried climbing the fucking vines? We're not _idiots!_ "

And that did it.

Thomas open his mouth wide, taking in a sharp breath. "I'm just trying to get us through this!" he said forcefully. "Why don't you stop moping at everything I say and _help?_ " Minho stepped right up in Thomas's face, backing him into the wall, sticking a finger Thomas face. Thomas had an angry impulse to _bite_ it but he refrained himself.

"No. _You're_ just making it worse by trying to have hope, shuck-face! We're dead! You said it yourself! That throwing Ben out here was murder! Well now, we're out here! No one has ever survived the night! _We_ … are going…to _die_. Get that through your _thick_ head." Thomas thought he could finally see fear laced in the boy's anger. He turned away from Thomas, walking over to the opposite wall. Thomas watched in awe as he unbuckled his pants, snatched them and his underwear down his thighs, turned around exposing his beautiful, round, tight, ass, and slapping his hands up against the opposite wall as if he were about to be frisked by a cop. He arched his back, causing his plump round cheeks to poke out at Thomas, then spoke over his shoulder. "Now are you going to fuck me or not?!"

Thomas opened his mouth to argue that now was _not the time_ , even though seeing Minho in that provocative position seriously made a part of Thomas want to grip Minho's husky waist, and fuck the boy's lights out, just take him from behind. Thomas could almost feel those luscious cheeks in his hands. He could _see_ how firm Minho's ass was and could only imagine how _tight_ Minho would feel around his stiff member. The blood pulsing through his rock hard length almost made the decision for him. His hands had begun to reach for the enticing ass, but no. This person was _not Newt_. And then there was a noise, a low haunting sound that came from the Maze. A constant whirring that had a metallic ring every few seconds, like sharp knives rubbing against each other. Thomas felt his breath quicken.

Minho's head snapped that way as he jumped back from the wall, looking down the dark corridor. And Thomas was sure this time. There was fear on Minho's handsome face. His eyes were wide, his lower lip trembling slightly, as the sound grew louder, eerie clicks joining in.

Minho stood there visibly shuddering in the dying light. He snatched his pants up as quickly as he'd snatched them down, then grabbed chunks of his short hair in both hands, panting like a dehydrated animal. "Awe man… I've never been this been this scared before. _Ever_." Thomas could hear his expression in his voice. "We have to split up—it's our only chance. Just keep moving. Don't stop moving!"

And then he turned and ran, disappearing in seconds, swallowed by the Maze and darkness.


	18. 18

Thomas stared at the spot where Minho had vanished. _How could he leave me here?_ Thomas thought. Minho was the Keeper of the Runners and Thomas was a Newbie. Yet of the two of them, Minho had broken down and panicked, running off at the first sign of trouble. _How could he_ do _that to me? To_ us _?_ Thomas looked down at Alby, who now a mound of shadow in the darkness.

The noise grew louder. The roar of engines interspersed with rolling, cranking sound like chains hoisting machinery in an old, grimy factory. And then the smell—something burning, oily. Thomas couldn't begin to guess what was in store for him; he'd seen a Griever, but only a glimpse, and through a window. What would they do to him? How long would he last? He had been and _idiot_ for not taking Minho's offer. At least _then_ he would've had some pleasure before he died. Afterwards, he could've let Minho have his turn so he could see what that felt like too.

 _No_ , he told himself. He had to quit wasting time, waiting for them to come and slaughter him.

He turned to face the dark figure that was Alby. Kneeling on the ground, Thomas found Alby's neck, then searched for a pulse. Something there. He listened to his chest like Minho had done.

Still alive.

Thomas rocked back on his heels, then ran his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. And at that moment, in the space of only a few seconds, he learned something about himself. About the Thomas _before_.

He couldn't leave a friend to die. Even someone as cranky as Alby.

He reached down and grabbed both of Alby's arms, then squatted into a sitting position and wrapped the arms around his neck from behind. He pulled the unconscious body onto his back and pushed with his legs, grunting with the effort.

But without Minho it was too much. Thomas collapsed forward on onto face; Alby sprawled to the side with a loud flump.

The frightening sound of the Grievers grew closer by the second, echoing off the stone walls of the Maze. Thomas thought he could see bright flashes of light far away, bouncing off the night sky. He didn't want to meet the source of those lights, the sounds.

Trying a new approach, he grabbed Alby's arms again and started dragging him along the ground. He couldn't believe how _heavy_ the shank was, and it took only ten feet or so for Thomas to realize that is just wasn't going to work. Where would take an unconscious body out here anyway?

He pushed and pulled Alby back over to the crack that marked the entrance to the Glade, and propped him up once more into a sitting position, leaning against the stone wall.

Thomas sat back against it himself, panting from exertion, thinking. As he looked into the dark recesses of the Maze, he searched his mind for a solution. He could hardly see anything, and he knew that it would be stupid to run, even if he _could_ carry Alby. Not only did he stand the risk of getting lost, but he could also be running toward the Grievers instead of away from them.

He thought of the wall, the ivy. Minho hadn't explained, he had been too busy trying to coerce sex out of Thomas.

A plan formed in his mind, and it was the best thing he could come up with.

Thomas walked a few feet along the wall until he found a thick a thick growth of ivy covering most of the stone. He reached down and grabbed one of the vines that went all the way to the ground and wrapped his hand around it. It felt thicker and more solid than he would've imagined, maybe half an inch in diameter. He pulled on it, and with the sound of thick paper ripping apart, the vine came unattached from the wall—more and more as Thomas stepped away from it. When he'd moved back ten feet, he could no longer see the end of the vine way above; it disappeared in the darkness. But the trailing plant had yet to fall free, so Thomas knew it was still attached up there somewhere.

Hesitant to try, Thomas steeled himself and pulled on the vine of ivy with all his strength.

The vine held.

He yanked on it again. Then again, tugging and tugging over and over. Then he lifted his feet and hung by the vine; his body swung forward and bumped into the wall.

The vine held.

Quickly, Thomas grabbed other vines, ripping them apart from the wall, creating a series of climbing ropes. He tested each one, and they proved just as strong as the first. Encouraged, he went back to Alby and dragged him over to the vines.

A shark crack echoed from within the Maze, followed by the horrible sound of crumpling metal. Thomas, startled, swung around to look, his mind so concentrated on the vines that he'd momentarily shut out the Grievers; he searched all three directions of the Maze. He couldn't see anything coming, but the sounds were louder—the whirring, the groaning, the clanging… And the air had brightened ever so slightly; he could make out more details of the Maze than he'd been able just minutes before.

Thomas had to work faster.

He grabbed one of the vines and wrapped it around Alby's right arm. The plant would only reach so far, so he had to prop Alby up so he could make it work. After several wraps, he tied the vine off. Then he took another vine and put it around Alby's left arm, then both his legs, tying each one tightly. He worried about the Gladers circulation getting cut of but instantly decided that it was worth the risk.

Trying to ignore the doubt that was seeping into his mid about his plan, Thomas continued on. Now it was his turn. He snatched a vine with both hands and started to climb, directly over the spot where he'd just tied Alby up. The thick leaves of the ivy served well as handholds, and Thomas was elated to find that the many cracks in the wall were perfect supports for his feet as he climbed. It was almost as if the Creators had _intended_ for them to climb it. He began to think how easy this would be without—

 _No._ He refused to leave Alby behind. Once he reached a point a couple of feet above his friend, Thomas wrapped one of Alby's vines around his own chest, around and around several time, snug against his armpits for support. Slowly he let himself sag letting go with his hands but keeping his feet planted firmly in a large crack.

The vine held.

Now came the hard part.

The four vines tied to Alby below hung tautly around him. Thomas took hold of the one attached to Alby's left leg and pulled. He was only able to get it up a few inches before letting go. Alby was too heavy.

He climbed back down deciding to push instead of pull. To test it, he tried raising Alby only a couple of feet, limb by limb. First, he pushed the left leg up, then tied a new vine around it. Then the right leg. When both were secure, Thomas did the same to Alby's arms.

He stepped back, panting.

Alby hung there, seeming lifeless, now three feet higher than he'd been five minutes earlier.

Clangs and red lights from the Maze set Thomas back to work.

Using the same method of pushing each of Alby's arms and legs up to or three feet at a time, Thomas slowly made his way up the stone wall. He climbed until he was right below the body, wrapped a vine around his chest for support, then pushed Alby up as far as he could, limb by limb, and tied them off with ivy. Then he repeated the process.

Climb, wrap, push, tie.

Climb, wrap, push, tie. Thankfully the Grievers seemed to be going slowly through the Maze giving him some time.

Over and over, little by little, up and up they went. The effort was exhausting; Thomas heaved in every breath, felt sweat cover every inch of his skin. His hands began to slip and slide on the vines. His feet were aching.

A red light to his left stopped him. Thomas looked down. They had reached about thirty feet off the ground. He turned and almost screamed out loud—a beetle blade was only a few inches from him, its spindly legs poking through the ivy and somehow sticking to the stone. The red light of its eyes was like the sun, too bright look at directly. Thomas squinted and tried to focus on the beetle's body.

The torso was a silver cylinder, maybe three inches in diameter and teen inches in length. Twelve jointed legs ran along the length of its bottom, spread out, making the thing look like a sleeping lizard. The head was impossible to see because of a red beam of light shining right at him, though it seemed small, vision its only purpose, perhaps.

But then, Thomas saw the chilling part. He thought he'd seen it before, back in the Glade when the beetle blade had scooted past him into the woods. Now it was confirmed: the red light from its eye cast a creepy glow on six capital letters smeared across the torso:

WICKED

Thomas couldn't imagine why that word would be stamped on the beetle blade, unless for the purpose of announcing to the Gladers that it was evil. Wicked. He knew it was spy. Alby had told him, saying they were how the Creators watched them.

With a click and a clack the beetle blade scuttled away, disappearing in the ivy.

Climb, wrap, push, tie.

Climb, wrap, push, tie.

Another mechanical squeal stopped him again, close now, followed by the surge of revved machinery, too close for comfort now. Thomas moved as faster.

 _Climb. Wrap. Push. Tie._

 _Climb. Wrap. Push. Tie._

He known they couldn't reach the top. He'd only hoped the Grievers couldn't or wouldn't look up.

And then a Griever rounded the corner up ahead and came toward them. Thomas's eyes widened as he tried to imitate Alby's still body, hanging limp in the vines.

This is where they would hide, or make their stand.


	19. 19

Thomas stared in horror as the monstrous thing made its way down the long corridor of the Maze.

It looked like an experiment gone terribly—something from a nightmare. Part animal part machine, the Griever rolled and clicked along the stone pathway. It's body resembled a gigantic slug, sparsely covered in hair and glistening with slime, grotesquely pulsating in and out as it breathed. It had no distinguishable head or tail, but front to end it was as least six feet long, four feet thick.

Every ten seconds or so, sharp metals spikes popped through it bulbous flesh and the whole creature curled into a ball and spun forward. Then it would settle, seeming to gather its bearings, the spikes reading back through the moist skin with a sick slurping sound. It did this over and over, traveling just a few feet at time.

But hair and spikes were not the only thing protruding from the Griever's body. Several randomly placed mechanical arms stuck out here and there, each one with a different purpose. A few had had bright lights attached to them. Others had long menacing needles. One had a three-fingered claw that clasped and unclasped for no apparent reason. When the creature rolled, these arms folded and maneuvered to avoid being crushed. The sounds Thomas had heard made sense now.

 _Eugh_ … Thomas was revolted and terrified at the same time. He wondered who would create, such a creatures.

 _Maybe it won't see us,_ he thought, panting. _Just maybe_. But the reality of the situation hit like a stone. The beetle blade had just revealed his exact location to the Creators.

The Griever rolled and clicked its way closer, zigzagging back and forth, moaning and whirring. Every time it stopped, the metal arms unfolded and turned this way and that, like a roving robot on an alien planet looking for signs of life. The lights cast eerie shadows across the Maze. He couldn't believe people could create something this horrific and send it after children.

Trying to remain calm, Thomas closed his eyes and concentrated on staying still and quiet. The creature kept coming, whirring and clicking.

Thomas risked a glance, peeking down with his eyes without moving his head. The Griever had reached the wall where he and Alby hung. It paused close to the door that led into the Glade, only a few yards to Thomas's right.

 _Please go the other way_ , Thomas pled silently. _Turn. Go. That way_. Thomas wasn't surprised to feel his face heat up, tears rolling down his cheeks. Who _wouldn't_ cry in a situation like this?

The Griever rolled, right up to the wall.

Thomas held his breath, not daring to make a sound. _No… Please go the other way…_ The tears rolled freely. _Please…_ Thomas wanted to look down so badly, but he knew any movement might give him away. The beams of light from the creature shone all over the place, completely random, never settling on one spot.

Then, without warning, they went out.

The world went dark and silent. Thomas could feel himself trembling. It was so silent, as if the creature had turned off. It didn't move, and with no more lights Thomas couldn't see.

He took small breaths through his nose, trying to keep them silent, but they quaked and rattled from his trembling body.

Seconds passed. Minutes. The ropy plant dug into Thomas's flesh—his chest felt numb. His face was wet, and the tears had started to make his face tingle and itch. He wanted to wipe them away.

And with a sudden burst of light and sound, the Griever started climbing the wall.


	20. 20

The Griever's spike tore into the stone, throwing shredded ivy and rock chips in every direction. A bright light on the end of one arm pointed directly at Thomas, only this time, the light didn't move away.

Thomas felt his last drop of hope drain from his body.

His only option was to run. _I'm sorry, Alby_ , he thought as he swiftly unraveled the thick vine from his chest. Using his left hand to hold to the foliage above him, he prepared to move. He knew he couldn't go up—that would bring the Griever across Alby. He couldn't go down lest this all to come to a gruesome end.

Sideways.

Thomas reached out and grabbed a vine two feet left of where he hung, giving it a yank. It held just like the others. A quick glance below revealed that the Griever had already halved the distance between them. Thomas had to move, and quickly. And like some tree climbing monkey, he was off, going across the vines, moving more quickly than he would've hoped.

After moving several feet, Thomas dared to look back. The Griever had altered its course from Alby to Thomas. _Finally_ , Thomas thought. _Something went right._ Pushing off as strongly as he could, vine by vine, he fled the hideous thing.

Thomas didn't need to look behind him to know that the Griever was gaining on him. The sounds gave it away. Somehow, he had to get back on the ground. Thomas began to climb in a downward angle. With every vine he went further and lower. Moments later he'd made his way half down to the floor and he saw the Griever out of the corner of his left eye. It was close enough to where it was reaching out with the three-pronged claw like thing.

Thomas panicked, a girlish squeal escaping his lips, and he slid down one of the vines, burning his palms. After a couple seconds of this, his hands couldn't take it and they reflexively loosened their grip.

And Thomas was in a freefall. In the darkness he couldn't see how far the ground was but five of six seconds later he hit the stone on his back. The fall knocked the breath out of him, just as it had when he'd fallen into the Box.

For a moment Thomas couldn't move. He lay there fighting with his lungs, but a booming and earth shaking crash from behind him told him that he had to. He stumbled to his feet refusing to look back as he bolted down the corridor.

He rounded a corner of the Maze, then another, and another, trying to keep count of his turns, hoping he'd live long enough to use the information to find to door again. _Left, right, right, left._ But it was no good. He was going to get lost. The sound of pursuit behind him didn't fade, but it didn't sound like it was _gaining_ either.

On an on he ran, his heart ready to blow its way out of his chest. With great, sucking heaves of breath, he tried to get oxygen in his lungs, but he knew he couldn't run much longer. But he was not giving in. He would run until he had to crawl, and crawl until he had to drag himself onward by his arms, and drag until he couldn't move. Only then would he surrender to death.

When he rounded the next corner, he skidded to a halt at the sight in front of him. Panting uncontrollably, he stared.

Three Grievers were up ahead, rolling along as they dug their spikes into the stone, coming directly toward him.


	21. 21

Thomas turned to see his original pursuer still coming, though it slowed a bit, clasping and unclasping a metal claw as if mocking him.

 _It knows I'm done, he thought_. After all his effort, there he was, surrounded by Grievers. It was over. Not even a week of salvageable memory and his life was over. At least he had had gotten to experience an orgasm. Could've done it again if he hadn't been so stupid earlier. He stood there, trembling in silent tears.

The one Griever zoomed toward him rolling along, and Thomas stood there waiting. He had run himself out, and there was nowhere else to run. Seconds to collision. _I should've said yes,_ Thomas thought.

At the last second, Thomas realized that this was fight was not over. He planted his left foot and dove right. Unable to stop its momentum, the Griever shot straight past him, and now, no longer surrounded, Thomas had a straight shot, back down the path.

He scrambled to his feet and dashed forward. Sounds of pursuit, this time from all four Grievers, followed close behind. Sure that he was pushing his body beyond its physical limits, he ran on, trying to rid himself of the hopeless feeling that it was only a matter of time before they got him. _Well I'll fight until they—_

Two hands suddenly reached out and yanked him into the adjoining hallway. Thomas's heart leapt into his throat as he let out another girlish scream and tried to escape. He stopped, his heart still pounding, when he realized it was Minho.

"What—"

"Shut up and follow me!" Minho said forcefully, dragging Thomas away until he was able to get his feet under himself.

Without a moment to think, Thomas collected himself. Together they ran through corridors, taking turn after turn. Minho seemed to know exactly where he was going and what he was doing; he never paused to think which way to run.

As they rounded the next corner, Minho spoke as if they hadn't been running for the past three minutes. And Thomas realized that of course a steady pace like this wouldn't get him tired. He runs every day. "I just saw that move you pulled back there. Gave me an idea."

Thomas didn't bother wasting his breath asking questions. Unlike Minho, he was surprised he hadn't passed out yet, but he kept running, following Minho. Every inch of his body hurt, inside and out, his limbs cried for him to quit running. But he ran on, hoping his heart wouldn't stop.

A few turns later, Thomas saw something ahead of them that didn't register with his brain. It seemed… wrong. The corridor didn't end in another stone wall.

It ended in blackness.

Thomas narrowed his eyes as they ran toward the wall of darkness, trying to comprehend what they were approaching. The two ivy—covered walls on either side seemed to intersect with nothing but sky up ahead. He could see stars. As they got closer, he finally that it was an opening—the Maze ended.

 _How?_ He wandered. _After almost four years of searching, how did Minho find the exit this easily?_

"Don't get excited," Minho said, still speaking easily through their steady pace.

A few feet before the end of the corridor, Minho pulled up, holding him arm out across Thomas's chest to ensure he stopped too. Thomas slowed, then walked up to where the Maze opened out into sky. The sounds of the onrushing Grievers grew closer, but he had to see.

They had indeed reached an exit to the Maze, but like Minho had said, it was nothing to get excited about. All Thomas could see in every direction, up, down, and around, was empty air and stars. It was like standing at the edge of the universe, and for a brief moment he was overcome by vertigo until Minho's hand reached out and steadied him.

"Making you dizzy?" he asked. Thomas nodded as he righted himself. "Same thing happened to me first time I saw it. This is the Cliff. And you be careful. You wouldn't be the first shank to fall off."

Thomas remembered hearing the word _Cliff_ before, but couldn't place it at the moment. Seeing the vast, open shy in front of and below him into some kind of hypnotized stupor. He shook himself back to reality and turned to face the oncoming Grievers. They were now only dozens of yards away, single file, charging in with a vengeance, moving surprisingly fast.

Everything clicked, the, even before Minho explained what they were going to do.

"These things may be vicious," Minho said, "but they're dumb as dirt. Stand here—"

Thomas cut him off. "I know. I'm ready."

They shuffled their feet until they stood scrunched up together in front of the drop-off at the very middle of the corridor, facing the Grievers. Their heels were only inches from the edge of the Cliff behind them. Nothing but air waiting for them after that.

The only thing left was courage.

"We need to move together!" Minho sad forcefully. "When I say!"

Why the Grievers had lined up in a single file was a mystery. Maybe the Maze proved just narrow enough to make it awkward for them to travel side by side. But one after the other, they rolled down the stone hallway, clicking and moaning and ready to kill. Dozens of yards had become dozens of feet, and the monsters were only seconds away from crashing into the waiting boys.

"Not yet… not yet…"

Thomas hated every millisecond of waiting. He just wanted to close his eyes and never see another Griever again.

"Now!"

Just as the first Griever's arm extended out to nip at them, Minho and Thomas dove in opposite directions, each toward one of the outer walls of the corridor. The tactic had worked for Thomas earlier, and judging by the horrible screeching sound that escaped the Griever, it had worked again. The monster flew off the edge of the Cliff. Oddly, it's battle cry cut off sharply instead of fading as it plummeted to the depths beyond.

Thomas landed against the wall and turned just in time to see the second creature tumble over the edge, not able to stop itself. The third one planted a heavily spiked arm into the stone, but still it tumbled over. Again, neither of them made a sound as they fell—as if they'd disappeared instead of falling.

The fourth and final approaching creature was able to stop in time, teetering on the very edge of the cliff, a spike and claw holding it in place..

Instinctively Thomas knew what he had to do. Looking to Minho, he nodded, then turned. Both boys ran in at the Griever and jumped feet-first at the creature, kicking out at the last second with every waning bit of strength. They both connected, sending the last monster plummeting to its death.


	22. 22

A half an hour passed.

Neither Thomas nor Minho moved an inch.

Despite the lack of memory, Thomas was sure that he had just been through the most traumatic night of his life. His sore hands and utter exhaustion didn't help. He had probably cried the most tonight than he ever had in his life as well. And from Minho's red eyes, Thomas could tell that he'd been crying too.

Thomas crawled to the edge of the Cliff once more, stuck his head over again to get a better look now that dawn was here. The open sky in front of him was a deep purple, slowly fading into the bright blue of day, with tinges of orange from the sun on a distant, flat horizon.

He stared straight down, saw that the stone wall of the Maze went toward the ground in a solid cliff until it disappeared into whatever lay below. But even with the ever increasing light, he still couldn't tell what was down there. It seemed as if the maze was perched on a structure several miles above the ground.

But that was impossible. It must be an illusion.

"I can't believe we're still alive," Minho said, his face devoid of expression.

"Are there more of them?"

Minho snorted. "If there were more, I'm pretty sure they would've been on our asses by now." He shifted. "Seriously. I can't believe we made it through the night—never been done before."

"So you told me," Thomas said, with the first smile of night.

Minho looked up at him, his eyes narrowing. "If you tell anybody about that, I'll punch you in your neck. I'm _discreet._ The only reason I told you about it is because I thought I was dying."

"Oh," Thomas said, looking wide eyed at Minho. He knew information he wasn't supposed to know. Should he say something? Or just go with it—like this was his first time hearing about it? That felt too much like lying.

"I kind of already kne—"

"Newt _told_ you?" The boy interrupted. "I'm gonna break his shuck-face fingers! We didn't even really _do_ anything. Just some kissing and groping. Okay and _maybe_ he gave me head." He was silent, slightly fuming, staring into the sky off the Cliff, after a moment he seemed to calm down a little. "Honestly that's the reason I asked you if that girl was hot—to see how you would respond." He was quiet again. "After the way you looked at me when you got here I wanted to see if you were different like me... you know…" Thomas had never seen the boy so bashful. He was always tough, and bold. Thomas thought the shyness looked adorable on him.

"Gay?" Thomas supplied, saying the word for the first time and finding that it actually didn't sound that bad out in the air.

"Yeah." Minho looked up.

 _"Surely_ me, you and Newt can't be the only three?" Thomas asked, a questions he'd been curious about. He felt more comfortable asking these questions with Minho than he did with Chuck.

"The only ones I know of. Until about a month ago it was just Newt, then he figured me out, we fooled around. Then you got here."

 _Only a month?_ Thomas thought.

"I mean, I'm surprised that you two can be all _open_ with this thing you've got going on," Minho continued.

Thomas shrugged. "Why should we hide?"

"Some of the Gladers talk about you behind your backs. Callin' you two some names you wouldn't like. I couldn't deal with—"

" _Who?_ " Thomas interrupted angrily, immediately thinking of Gally.

"Hey," Minho said, raising his hands as if surrendering. "I'm not a snitch. I just thought you should know that people are talking." For a moment Thomas considered pressing him for information, but decided against it. Minho would probably get mad and stop answering his questions.

"So you're telling me that _none_ of the other guys do things with each other? You know… just because they're tired of wanking?

Minho shrugged. "Not that I know of. I mean I suspected Alby and—" Alby. _Alby!_

Thomas jumped to his feet, feeling the soreness in his body from all the running and stuck his hand out to a wide eyed Minho, clearly surprised by his abrupt interjection.

"We have to go back. Gotta get Alby off the wall." Minho took Thomas hand and got to his feet and Thomas seeing the confusion on his face, quickly explained what he'd done with the ropes of ivy.

Minho looked down dejectedly. "No way he's still alive."

Thomas refused to believe it. "How do you know? Come on." He started limping back along the corridor.

"Because no one's ever made it…" He trailed off, and Thomas knew what he was thinking.

"That's because they've always been killed by the Grievers before anyone found them. Alby was only stuck with one of those needles, right?"

Minho joined Thomas in his slow walk back to the Glade. "I don't know, I guess this has never happened before. A few guys have been stung during the day and those are the ones who got the Serum and went through the Changing. The poor shanks who got stuck out here weren't found until later _—days_ later, sometimes, if at all. And all of them were killed in ways you don't wanna hear about."

Thomas shuddered at the thought. "After what we just went through, I think I can imagine."

Minho looked up, surprise transforming his face. "I think you just figured it out. We've been wrong—well, _hopefully_ we've been wrong. Because no one who's been stung and _didn't_ make back by sunset has ever survived, we just assumed that was the point of no return—when it's too late to get the Serum." He seemed excited by his line of thinking.

They turned yet another corner, Minho subconsciously taking the lead, the boy's pace picking up, but Thomas stayed on his heels, surprised at how familiar he felt with directions , usually even leaning towards turns before Minho showed the way.

"Okay—this Serum," Thomas said. "I've heard that a couple of times now. What _is_ that? And where does is come from?"

"It's just what it sounds like. It's a Serum. The Grief Serum."

Thomas couldn't help laughing. "Just when I thought I've learned everything about this stupid place. Why is it called that? And why are Grievers called Grievers?"

Minho explained as they continued through the endless turns of the Maze, neither of them leading now. "I don't know where we got the names, but the Serum comes from the Creators—or that's what we call them, at least. It's with the supplies in the Box every week, always has been. It's a medicine or antidote or something, already inside a medical syringe, ready to use." He made a show of sticking a needle in his arm. "Pop that sucker into somebody who's been stung and it saves 'em. They go through the Changing—which sucks—but after that, they're healed."

A minute or two passed in silence as Thomas processed the information; they made a couple more turns. He wondered about the Changing. And what it meant. He thought of Newt and happy and shocked he would be to see them again.

"Weird, though," Minho finally continued. "We've never talked about this before. If he's still alive, there's really no reason to think that Alby can't be saved by the Serum. We somehow got into our klunk heads that if you got trapped outside you sere done—end of story. I gotta see this hangin'-on-the-wall thing myself. I think you're fuckin' with me."

The boys kept walking, Minho almost looking happy, but something was nagging at Thomas. He'd been avoiding it, denying it. "What if another Griever got Alby after I diverted the one chasing me?"

Minho looked over at him, a blank expression on his face.

"Let's just hurry," Thomas said, hoping against hope that all effort to save Alby hadn't been wasted.

They tried to pick up the pace, but their bodies hurt so much and they settled back into a slow walk despite the urgency. The next time they rounded a corner, Thomas faltered, his heart skipping a beat when he saw movement up ahead. Relief washed through him an instant later and he beamed when he realized it was Newt and a group of Gladers. The West Door to the Glade towered over them and it was open. They'd made it back.

At the boy's appearance, Newt bolted toward them, attacking Thomas with a hug and a kiss. With the pain from Thomas body, he couldn't fight. They both went down, Newt on top of Thomas.

Thomas winced breaking from his lips. "Not that I'm not thrilled to see you too… but _owe,"_ Thomas said, still beaming. He was _definitely_ thrilled to know that Newt cared so much.

"Sorry," Newt whispered, kissing him again and rolling off, helping Thomas back up. From up this close, Thomas could see that he'd been crying again.

"Well, I'm not here," Minho said sarcastically, raising his arms and dropping them.

Newt looked over at him. "What happened?" he asked, almost angrily. "How the bloody hell are you—"

"We'll tell you later," Thomas interrupted. "Did you guys find Alby?"

Newt blanched. "You means he's alive?" Thomas took that as 'no'.

"Just come on." Thomas headed to the right, craning his neck to look high up at the wall, searching along the thick vines until he found the spot where Alby hung by his arms and legs far above them. Without saying anything, Thomas pointed up, not daring to be relieved yet. He was still there, and in one piece, but there was no sign of movement.

Newt finally saw his friend hanging in the ivy, and looked back at Thomas. If he seemed shocked before, now he simply looked bewildered. _"How…_ the _bloody…_ _hell?_ Is he _alive?_ "

 _Please let him be_ , Thomas thought. "I don't know. He was when I left him there last night."

"When _you_ left him?" Newt shook his head. "You and Minho get your arses inside, get yourselves checked by the Med-jacks. You look bloody awful. I want the whole story when they're done and you've rested up." Newt turned to the nearby Gladers. "Someone help me get him down, now!"

Thomas wanted to see if Alby was okay, but was forced to do as he was told. "Come on," Minho said, grabbing his wrist. "We need sleep. And bandages."

And Thomas knew he was right. Thomas and Minho, finally, exited the Maze.

The walk to the Homestead seemed endless, Gladers gawking at them in from all directions. Their faces in complete awe, as if they were watching two ghost strolling through a graveyard. Thomas knew it was because they had accomplished that which had never been accomplished, but was still embarrassed by the attention.

He almost stopped walking altogether when he spotted Gally up ahead, arms folded and glaring, looking ugly and homicidal as usual, but Thomas kept moving. It took every ounce of his willpower, but he looked directly into Gally's eyes, never breaking contact. When they got to within five feet, the other boy's stare fell to the ground.

Thomas smiled feeling triumphant.

The next few minutes were a blur. Escorted into the Homestead by a couple of Med-jacks, up the stairs, a glimpse through a barely ajar door of someone feeding the comatose girl in her bed, into their own rooms, into bed, food, water, bandages. Pain. Finally, he was left alone, his head resting on the softest pillow his limited memory could recall.

But as he fell asleep the word he had seen scrawled across the beetle blade—WICKED—would not leave his mind. It ran through his thoughts again and again. But in a surprisingly short time, Thomas was sleep.

ooo

Hours later—could've been days—Chuck was there, shaking him awake. It took several seconds for Thomas to get his baring sand see straight. He focused on Chuck, then groaned wanting to punch him.

"Let me sleep, shank."

"I thought you'd want to know."

Thomas rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Know?" He looked at Chuck confused by his big smile.

"He's alive," Chuck said. "Alby's okay. The Serum worked."

Thomas's grogginess instantly washed away, replaced with relief. He was so joyed he reached out and hugged chuck. Then he thought about what Chuck has said and his arms slacked.

"The Serum worked?" he said, his head still on the boy's shoulder

Chuck nodded. Thomas pulled back and looked him in the eye.

"He's started the Changing?" Thomas already knew the answer to this question, but the earsplitting, blood curdling, heart dropping scream from the down the hall answered it anyway.


	23. 23

Thomas wondered long and hard about Alby. It had seemed such a victory just to save his life, bring him back. But had it been worth it? Now the boy was in intense pain, going through the same thing as Ben. What if he became just as psychotic? _Then he'll get over it_ , Thomas thought. _Just like Ben has_. So far, Ben hadn't attacked Thomas or anyone for that matter. He seemed _normal._ Thomas found that he liked the boy, though he refused to talk about his Changing or why he had attempted to murder to Thomas, but overall, normal. Yes. If Thomas used Ben as his model, then he could conclude that Alby would have a rough couple of days, maybe a homicidal one, but in the end. He would be fine.

But until then. Alby's screams continued to haunt the air. It was impossible to escape the terrible sound, even when Thomas finally talked the Med-jacks into letting him go—weary, and sore, but tired of the piercing , agonized wails of their leader. Newt had adamantly refused when he'd asked to see the person he'd risked his life for. "It'll only make it worse," he had said, and would not be swayed.

Thomas had no idea it was possible to feel so exhausted, despite the few hours of sleep he'd gotten. He'd hurt too much to do anything after that, and had spent most of the on a bench on the outskirts of the Deadheads, wallowing in despair. Thomas found that with Alby down, he hadn't seen Newt, and that was a little saddening. Newt was either with Alby, the girl, or running around doing something that their leader usually did. But he mostly sat with Alby.

The elation of their escape had faded rapidly, leaving Thomas with pain and thoughts of his new life in the Glade. Every muscle ached; cuts and bruises he didn't know when he had obtained, covered him from head to toe. But even that wasn't as bad as the heavy emotional weight of what he'd been through the previous night. It seemed as if all the realities of living here had finally settled in his mind, like hearing a final diagnosis of terminal cancer. He realized that Newt and Alby had both been wrong.

 _How could anyone ever be happy in a life like this? How could anyone be evil enough to_ do _this?_ He understood more than ever the passion the Gladers felt for the finding their way out of the Maze. It wasn't just a matter of escape. For the first time, he felt hunger to get revenge on whoever was responsible for this.

But those thoughts just led back to the hopelessness that had filled him so many times already. If Minho and the others hadn't been able to solve the Maze after almost four _years_ of searching, it seemed impossible there could actually _be_ a solution. The fact that the Gladers hadn't given up said more about them than anything else.

And now he was one of them.

 _This is my life. Living in a giant maze, surrounded by vicious monsters._ Sadness filled him like a heavy poison. Alby's screams now distant but still audible made it worse. He had to squeeze his hands to ears each time he heard them. Thomas found himself desperately wishing that Newt were there to hold him, but he was busy. Of course Thomas understood why, but it was still depressing.

Eventually, the day dragged to a close, and the setting of the sun brought the now familiar grinding of the doors closing for the night. Thomas had no memory of his life before the Box, but he was positive he'd finished the worst twenty-four hours of his existence.

Just after dinner, Ben brought him some dinner and a big glass of water.

"Thanks," Thomas said, growing more and more fond of the boy, almost forgetting that he had attempted to murder him. He scooped the beef and noodles off the plate as fast as his aching arms could move. "I so needed this," he mumbled through a huge bite. He took a big swig of his drink, then went back to attacking his food. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he'd started eating.

"That's disgusting, dude." Ben said, sitting on the bench next to him. Thomas ignored him, the food holding his tongue. "So you're the talk of town."

Thomas sat up straighter off of that, now sure how he felt about the news. "What does _that_ mean?"

"Well of _course_ everyone ranting about what you did. Saving Alby by tying him like some monkey. You were one of the first people to _ever_ survive a night out there. _And_ you went and killed four Grievers. Yeah. Everybody's talking about Minho and That Gay Newbie."

"They're calling me _That Gay Newbie?_ " Thomas asked astounded, a little angry as Ben nodded. He didn't know why that was so insulting—it was truth. And with that thought, he brushed it off his shoulder.

"It wasn't my idea to run them off the Cliff—that was Minho." Thomas said truthfully.

"Not according to him. He saw you do the wait-and-dive move _then_ he had his great epiphany."

"Any idiot would've done that," Thomas said rolling his eyes, munching on beef.

"Don't be so modest. What you guys did was amazing."

"Then why do I feel so crappy? Huh?" Thomas asked abruptly, raising his hands and dropping them on his thighs. He searched Ben's face for an answer, but by the looks of it he didn't have one. He simply sat there, gazing off in the distance.

"Same reason we all feel crappy," he said finally.

They sat in silence until a few minutes later, Newt walked up, looking like death on two feet. He sat on the ground between Thomas's legs, as sad and worried as any person could possible appear. Still, Thomas was happy to have him around.

"I think the worst part's over," Newt said. "The bugger should be sleepin' for a couple of days, then wake up okay. Maybe a little screaming every now and then."

Thomas couldn't imagine how bad the whole ordeal must be—but the whole process of the Changing was still a mystery to him. He looked down at Newt, trying his best to be casual. "Newt, what's going on up there. I don't get was this Changing thing is."

Newt's response startled Thomas. "You think _we do?!_ " he spat, throwing his arms up then slapping them back on his knees. "All we know is if the Grievers sting you with its nasty needle, you get the Serum or you die. If you get it, your body wigs out, your skin bubbles, you turn green, and you vomit all over the place. Enough explanation?"

Thomas frowned. He knew that Newt was pressured and stressed from all the events of the of the day, but that was the _second_ time he had spoken to Thomas like that and it _hurt._ "Hey," Thomas said, softly not wanting to argue and upset Newt more, "I know it sucks to see your friend go through that, but I just wanna know what's going on."

Newt relaxed, seemed to shrink even, then sighed. "It brings back memories. Just little snippets, but definite memories of before we came to this horrid place. Everyone who goes through it acts like a psycho when it's over. Though not quite as bad as _this_ guy," he said with a playful shove at Ben's leg.

But Ben didn't seem to know it. He sat there still and silent, staring at the ground as if he had never seen it before. He was so quiet and still for so long not even blinking Thomas had begun to worry. Had he slipped into some kind of catatonic state?

"It hurts like hell," he said softly, his face still vacant. Thomas and Newt stared at him, wide eyed. Thomas had almost forgotten _why_ Ben had been delusional. He and Newt had a victim of the Changing sitting with them. "That's what all the screamin' is," he continued, in the same quiet tone, still unblinking. "And it's not from your body, though that hurts too. Feels like your veins are on fire, but that not the worst part." He shook his head slightly, a very small movement that if Thomas hadn't been staring so intently he wouldn't have noticed. "No that's not the worst part."

Ben sat on the bench, rubbing his hands together now, in a fidgety way, his eyebrow furrowed as if the memory of it were causing him physical pain."What makes you scream is the pain in your head." He tapped softly at his temple, still staring at ground. Thomas thought that if the boy didn't blink soon his eyes would shrivel up. His face was so contorted now he looked almost as demented as he did in the woods. "It's when the memories come back. They _eat_ at your head like _ants._ And you'd think that you would get used to it because it feels the same every time, but you _don't._ It hurts worse _every time_ and it's _agony._ And you get a _lot_ of them. You just forget most of them once it's all over, but they hurt all the same."

Thomas and Newt sat frozen. From Newt's similarly bewildered expression, Thomas got the understanding that no one who had gone through the Changing, had ever spoken of it. And Thomas could see _why._ Who want to think of _—relive—_ something so excruciating? He could almost feel the flames flickering inside his veins from the thought of it.

Ben shook his head like a wet dog, as if shaking the thoughts away, finally blinking a couple of times. He looked over at Thomas and Newt and they both understood that his monologue was over, and they were not permitted to ask questions. "So what are you guys going to do with Tommy here?" he asked Newt, clearly searching for a subject change.

Thomas obliged him, perking up curiously at this question as the tense atmosphere lightened considerably. _"Do_ with me? What's this shank talking about?" He looked over at Newt who was standing now. Newt stretched.

"You turned this whole place upside down, Tommy—broke the Number One Commandment. Half the Gladers think you're a God, the other half wants to throw your arse down the Box Hole. There's a lot of stuff to talk about tomorrow."

" _Tomorrow?_ " Thomas didn't like the sound of this.

"Yes, _tomorrow._ When you'd think it was going to bloody happen—next week?" He rolled his eyes. "Look. I've called a Gathering and you'll be there. You're the only bloody thing on the agenda."


	24. 24

The next morning, Thomas found himself sitting in a chair, worried and anxious, sweating, facing eleven other boys. They were seated in chairs arranged in a semicircle around him. Once settle , he realized they were the Keepers, and to his chagrin that meant Gally was among them. One chair directly in front of Thomas stood empty—he didn't need to be told it was Alby's.

They sat in the same large room of the Homestead that Thomas had been in before. Besides the chairs, there was no other furniture except for a small table in the corner. The walls were made of wood, as was the floor, and it didn't look like anyone had ever attempted to make the place look inviting. There were no windows; the room smelled of mildew and books. Thomas wasn't cold, but he shivered all the same.

He was relieved to have Newt there. He sat in the chair to the right of Alby's empty seat. "In place of our leader, sick in bed, I declare this Gathering begun," he said, with a subtle roll of his eyes as if he hated anything approaching formality. "As you all know, the last few days have been bloody crazy, and quite a bit seems centered around our Greenbean, Tommy, seated before us."

Thomas's face flushed with embarrassment.

"He's not the Greenie anymore," Gally said, his scratchy voice so low and cruel it was almost comical. "He's just a rule breaker now."

This started off a rumbling of murmurs and whispers, but Newt shushed them. Thomas suddenly wanted to be as far from that room as possible.

"Gally," Newt said. "try to keep some bloody order, here. If you're gonna blabber your shuck mouth every time I say something, you can get out." If Thomas couldn't leave, that would be the second best option, he wished he could cheer at that.

Gally folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, the scowl on his face so prominent it almost looked plastic, synthetic. Thomas was having a harder time believing he had ever been afraid of this guy—he seemed silly, even pathetic now.

Newt gave Gally a hard stare, then continued. "Glad we got that out of the way." Another roll of the eyes. "Reason we're here is because almost every lovin' kid in the Glade has come up to me in the last day or two boohooing about Thomas. This is the second rule he's broken. We need to decide what to do with him."

Gally leaned forward, but Newt cut him off before he could say anything.

"You'll have your chance, Gally. One at a time. Zart?" The quiet big guy who watched over the Gardens shifted in his seat. He looked to Thomas more out of place than a carrot on a tomato plant.

"Well," Zart began, his eyes darting around almost like he was waiting for someone else to tell him what to say. "I don't know. He broke The Number One Commandment. We can't just let people that's okay. And this _is_ his second time breaking a rule." He paused and looked down at his hands, rubbing them together. "But he's already been punished for the first time…and that's not what today is about. He's changed things. Now we know we can survive out there. We can beat the Grievers."

Relief flooded Thomas. He has someone else on his side. He made a promise to himself to be extra nice to Zart.

"Oh give me a break," Gally spurted. "I bet Minho—"

"Wait your turn or get out!" Newt yelled, his fist clinched. Once again Thomas felt like cheering. Gally's ridiculous scowl returned and he slouched back into his chair again. "Is that it?" Newt asked, motioning to Zart. "Any official recommendations?"

Zart shook his head.

"Okay." Newt pointed to the person in the next chair. "Frypan?"

The cook smiled through his beard and sat up straighter. "Shank's got more guts than I've fired up from every pig and cow in the last year." He paused, as if expecting a laugh, but none came. "Okay. First he stands up to us to all _twelve_ of us and points out how we're wrong to throw Ben out, and now, he saves Alby's life, kills a couple of Grievers, and we're sitting here yappin' about what to do with him. This is stupid."

Thomas wanted to walk over and shake Frypan's hand—he'd just said exactly what Thomas himself had been thinking about all of this.

"What are you recommending?" Newt asked.

Frypan folded his arms, folded his arms and shook his head, still smiling. "I don't have one."

"Okay." Newt pointed to a third member of the council, freckly faced, black haired kid that Thomas hadn't met yet.

"I don't really have an opinion," he said.

" _What?_ " Newt asked angrily. "Fat lot of good it did to choose you for the council then."

"Sorry, I honestly don't." He shrugged. "If anything, I agree with Frypan. This guy has saved _three_ lives. _Four_ if you count his own. Why punish him for that?"

"So you _do_ have an opinion? Is that it?" Newt insisted.

The kid nodded and Newt scribbled notes on a piece pad, just as he had done with the others. Thomas was feeling more and more relieved. It seemed like most of the Keepers were for him, not against him. Still he was having a hard time just sitting there and not defending himself.

Next was the acne-covered Winston the Butcher. "I think he should be punished, no offense, Greenie. Newt, you're the one always harping about _order._ If we don't punish him, we'll set a bad example. Like Zart said, he's been punished already for his past indiscretions, but now he broke the Number One Commandment."

"Okay," Newt said, writing on his pad. "So you're recommending punishment. What kind?"

"I think we should put in the Slammer for a week, with only bread and water. And we need to make sure everyone knows about it so they don't get any ideas."

Gally clapped, earning a scowl from Newt. Thomas heart fell, just a bit. So it was just light before. Thomas had done the right thing, but Winston wanted him punished just to put on a show for the other Gladers.

Two more Keepers spoke, one for Frypan's idea and one for Winston's. Then it was Newt's turn. Thomas had to keep himself from smiling. Surely Newt would only have good things to say.

"I agree with the lot of ya. He should be punished,"— _What?_ Thomas thought, as Newt stared him directly in the eye. "We need to set an example, but we also need to figure out a way to use him." Thomas didn't like being spoken of like he wasn't here. "I'm reserving my recommendation until I've heard everyone out."

Thomas hated all this talk about punishment, even more than he hated having to keep his mouth shut. But deep inside, he couldn't bring himself to disagree. As odd as it seemed after what he'd accomplished. He _had_ broken the rules. _Again._

Down and down they went. Some thought he should praised. Some thought he should punished. Some thought he should praised _and_ punished. Thomas could barely listen anymore, anticipating the comments from the last two Keepers, Gally and Minho.

Gally went first. "I don't trust this shank," he said abruptly, standing from his chair pointing at Thomas. He looked as if he were glad to finally have the chance to speak his mind. "He comes up in the Box, acting all confused and scared. I think it was just that. An _act._ Because a few days later, he's running around the Maze with Grievers. How could he have done what he did out there after just a few days?"

"What are you saying, Gally?" Newt asked. "Get to the bloody point."

"I think he's a spy from the people who put us here."

An uproar exploded in the room. Thomas could do nothing but shake his head—he just didn't get how Gally came up with these ideas. Newt finally calmed everyone down, but Gally wasn't finished.

"I don't trust this shank," Gally repeated. "Day after he shows up, a psycho _girl_ comes with cryptic messages. Then we find a dead not-so-dead Griever. _This_ shank conveniently finds himself in the Maze for the night, then tries to convince everyone he's a hero. Well, no one actually _saw_ him do anything with those vines. How do we know this shank actually tied Alby up there?"

Gally paused; no one said a word for several seconds and Thomas wanted to punch him Gally for calling him a liar. Thomas was so anxious to defend himself that he almost broke his silence for the first time. But Gally was talking again.

"There's _too_ many weird things going on, and it all started when _this_ shank got here. And he just _happens_ to be the first person to survive the Maze? _I don't trust this shank._ I say we lock his ass in the Slammer until we figure all this out."

More rumbling broke out, and Newt wrote something on his pad, shaking his head the whole time—which gave Thomas a tinge of hope.

"Finished, Captain Gally?" Newt asked.

"Quit being a frickin' jerk , Newt. I'm dead serious. How can we trust him—how can _you_ trust him," Thomas had known someone would bring that up, "after less than a week?"

Newt held his head level, his expression calm, as if his faith in Thomas had not just been put into question. "Are you done?"

"Yes. And I'm _right."_ Gally sat down.

With no more words from Gally, Newt pointed to Minho. "Go ahead, Minho, last but not least."

Minho stood slowly, deliberately. "I was out there. I _saw_ what Thomas did. He stayed strong while I panicked and turned into a panty-wearing chicken. No blabbin' from me like Gally. I nominate this shank to replace me as the Keeper of the Runners."


	25. 25

Complete silence filled the room, as if the world had been frozen. Every member of the council stared at Minho. Thomas sat stunned, waiting for the Runner to say he'd been kidding.

Gally finally stood up thawing everything out. "That some _bullshit!_ " He faced Newt and pointed back at Minho who had taken his seat again. "He should be kicked off the council for saying something so stupid." However, some Keepers seemed to actually agree with Minho's suggestion—like Frypan, who clapped to drown out Gally, clamoring to take a vote. Other didn't. Winston shook his head adamantly, saying something that Thomas couldn't quite make out. When everyone started talking at once, Thomas put his head in his hands to wait it out, terrified and awed at the same time. _Minho has to be joking,_ Thomas thought. _According to Newt it takes forever just to become a Runner let alone the Keeper._

Finally Newt put his pad down and stepped out from the semicircle, screaming at people to shut up. Thomas simply watched them, continuing to fight with silence. At first no one seemed to here or notice Newt at all. But, gradually, order was restored and everyone sat down.

"Bloody hell! I've never seen many shanks acting wee babies! We are _adults_ around here and we will act like it." He walked from end to end of the curved row of sitting Keepers looking at each of them as he spoke. "Are we clear?"

Silence swept across them once more. Thomas expected more outburst, but was surprised when everyone nodded their consent. "Good that." Newt took his seat, putting his pad in his lap. He scratched out a few lines then looked a Minho. "That's some pretty serious klunk. You're have to talk that up."

Thomas was eager to hear the response.

Minho looked irritated, but started defending himself. "Look. I'm the only Runner in this group and the only other person who's even been in the Maze is Newt.

Gally interrupted. "Not if you count—"

"I don't," Minho sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't know what it's like to be out there. The only reason you got stung is because you broke the same rule you're blaming Thomas for. That's called _hypocrisy."_ Galley scowled, wrinkling up that disgusting nose. "Anyway. I've never seen anything like it. He didn't panic out there. He didn't wine and cry. He never even seemed scared."

"Think about how we all were when we first showed up, huddled in corners not trusting anybody. Two days— _two days_ after this guy gets here, he steps out into the Maze to save two guys he hardly knows. Plenty of people told him, even _showed_ him what it was like out there and _still_ he went, only caring that two people needed help." He took a deep breath, seeming to blow some of his irritation away with the exhale. He paused as if thinking about where he wanted to go with his monologue. But Newt interrupted.

"Okay. I think you made your point. I'm writing it down," he said scratching away at his notepad. Gally looked murderous. He jumped to his feet.

"You're only agreeing with Minho and defending Thomas because you're _fucking_ him." There were multiple sharp inhales then a hush crossed the room. You could've heard a pin drop. That blow hurt. Even though he and Newt hadn't made it that far, Thomas knew that everyone was thinking that. He knew everyone presumed Newt would show favoritism because he and Thomas were together romantically. Newt looked _furious._

"Get out," he said. His voice was so small it was almost a whisper.

"No!" Gally argued on, fuming. "I'm just saying what everyone else is afraid to. Thomas just got lucky!"

 _"No!_ " Minho argued, speaking up again. "What just you said was _way_ out of line! And he didn't get lucky! I've been here over three years and I've never seen anything like that. You're nothing but a sissy who has never, not _once,_ asked to be a Runner, or even tried out for it. You don't have the right to talk about things you don't understand. Just shut up!" Gally looked ready to pop. He stepped up to Minho putting his finger in Minho's face.

"Say one more thing like that and I'll break your fucking neck," he growled through clenched teeth. "Right here in front of everybody." Minho scowled and shoved Gally in the face. Thomas watched the Glader crashed down into his chair tipping it backwards and cracking it into pieces. Newt and Winston were instantly on their feet holding Minho back as Galley scrambled to his feet, though he made no move toward Minho. He simply stood there with his chest out heaving breaths.

"Don't ever threaten me again," Minho growled back.

"Just _get out_ Gally!" Newt screamed, clearly still furious from Gally's earlier statement. Finally Gally back away, stumbling toward the exit, furious, eyes burning with hatred. Thomas has the sickening thought that Galley looked like someone about to commit murder. He stopped at the door, glaring at Thomas through squinted eyes. He spoke with quiet determination. "You are an embarrassing leader, he told Newt. Then he spoke to the room at whole. Anyone who stays here and follows him is a fool." This time he spoke directly to Thomas.

"And you. Whatever you came here for, I swear on my life I am going to stop it. I will kill you if I have to. Things are going to change." And with that, he turned and slammed the door behind him.

Thomas sat frozen in his chair, a sickness growing in his stomach like an infestation. He'd been through the whole gamut of emotions since he'd arrived in the Glade. Fear, lust, love, sadness, even joy. But this was something completely new—to hear a person say they hate you so much they want to kill you.

 _It's official,_ Thomas thought. _Gally's crazy. He's completely insane._ But that thought only increased his worries. Insane people could be capable of anything.

The council members stood, or sat in silence, seemingly as shocked as Thomas at what they'd just seen. Newt and Winston finally let go of Minho. All three of them sullenly walked to their chairs and sat down. "He's finally whacked for good," Minho sighed.

"Well you're not the saint in the room! Bloody hell! What were you thinking?" Minho squinched up his eyes and cocked his head back, as if he were baffled by Newt's question.

"The fuck? He threaten to _break my neck._ And kill Thomas! Ben had an excuse. This guy's just crazy! He is mentally whacked and you'd better send someone right now to throw his ass in the Slammer."

And that did it.

"May I say something now?" Thomas asked, his frustration raising the level of his voice. "I'm tired of you guys talking about me like I'm not here."

"Go ahead," Newt said, with a light wave us his arm. "This meeting can't be any more fucked up."

Thomas quickly gathered his scattered thought, clutching around in his disoriented brain. "I don't know what I did wrong. I simply saw two guys struggling to get back in here. To not help them because of some rule seemed, well… stupid."

Newt sighed. "Here what I think. You broke the Number One Commandment. For that you get another day in the Slammer. I also suggest we elect you a Runner, effective immediately. You proved more in one night than most trainees do in weeks. But as for Keeper," Newt glared at Minho, "Gally was right, that's bloody ridiculous."

The comment hurt Thomas's feelings, especially coming from Newt, even though it true. He looked to Minho for his reaction. He didn't look surprised, but he argued all the same.

"Why? He's the best have—I swear it. The best should be Keeper."

"Fine," Newt responded. "If that's true, we'll make the change later. Let's give it a month and see how this pans out." Minho shrugged in agreement. Thomas quietly sighed in relief. He was elated. He still wanted to be Runner—despite what he'd just gone through in the Maze—but becoming a Runner right away did seem a little ridiculous.

Thomas watched and listened as everyone chimed in their approval, filling Thomas with relief and a sense of pride.

Winston was the only one to say no.

"You're outnumbered so we don't need your approval but what's eating at you?" Newt asked him.

His eyes darted between everyone before he explained. "Well… Gally _has_ been through the Changing. That means he has _memories._ He's says Thomas looks familiar. Why would he lie? I just think we shouldn't totally ignore what Gally said. I don't think he would make it all up. Sorry, Thomas."

"Fair enough." Newt turned back to Thomas. "Tomorrow. Sunrise to sunset. Slammer. After that you begin Runner Training."

And with that, it sank in. Thomas was going to be a Runner. The meeting was dismissed and everyone but Newt and Minho exited the room in a hurry. Minho walked over and punched Thomas's arm. Thomas punched him back. "Keeper? You want me to be _Keeper?"_

Minho faked and evil grin. "It worked didn't it? Aim high, hit low. Thank me later."

Newt looked up from where he'd been jotting on the notepad. "You clever bastard," he said with a smile. A knock on the door snatched all of their attentions. Chuck stood in the doorway looking as if he'd just been chased by a Griever. Thomas felt the grin slip from his face.

"What's wrong," Newt asked, rising from his seat, stepping over to the homestead door.

"The Med-Jacks sent me. Alby thrashing around acting crazy. He keeps saying that he needs to talk to someone." Chuck looked directly at Thomas. "He keeps asking for him."


	26. 26

For the second time that day, Thomas was shocked into silence.

"Well, come on," Newt said to Thomas as he grabbed his hand. "There's no way I'm not going with ya."

Thomas let Newt lead, with Chuck and Minho right behind, as they left the Council room and went down the hall toward a narrow, spiraling staircase that he hadn't noticed before. Newt took the first step then gave Chuck a cold stare. "You. Stay."

For once, Chuck simply nodded and said nothing. Thomas figured something about Alby's behavior had the boy nerves on edge.

"Lighten up," Thomas said to Chuck as Newt and Minho went up the stairs. "They just elected me a Runner, so you're buddies with a stud now." He was trying to make joke, trying to deny that he was terrified to see Alby. What if he made accusations like Ben did?

 _Then he'll get over it, just like Ben did,_ Thomas reminded himself.

"Yea, right," Chuck whispered, staring at the wooden steps in a daze.

With a shrug Thomas began climbing the stairs. Sweat slicked his palms, and he felt a drop trickle down his temple.

Newt and Minho were waiting for Thomas at the top of the stairwell. The three of them stood at the opposite end of the long dark hallway from the usual staircase, the one Thomas had climbed on his first day. What was it—three days ago? Four? Thomas was already losing count. So much had happened.

Newt took his hand and they walked to the second door on the right and watched as the older boy knocked lightly; a moan sounded in reply. Newt pushed open the door, the slight creak once again reminding Thomas of some vague childhood memory of haunted movies. There it was again—the smallest glimpse of his past. He could remember movies, but none of the actors' faces or with whom he'd watched them. He could remember theaters but not what any specific one looked like. It was impossible to explain how that felt, even to himself.

Newt had stepped into the room and was motioning for Thomas to follow. As he entered, he prepared himself for the horror that might await. But when his eyes lifted, all they saw was a very weak looking teenage boy lying in bed, eyes closed.

"Is he asleep?" Thomas whispered, trying to avoid the real question that had popped in his mind: _He's not_ dead _is he?_

"I don't know," Newt said quietly. He walked over and sat in a wooden chair next to the bed. Thomas took a seat on the other side.

"Alby," Newt whispered. Then more loudly: "Alby, Chuck said you wanted to talk to Tommy."

Alby's eyes fluttered open, bloodshot orbs that glistened in the light. He looked at Newt, then across at Thomas. With a groan he shifted in the bed and sat up, his back against the headboard. "Yeah," he muttered, then his eyes found Minho. "What you doing here?"

"Just being nosey." Minho shrugged, shamelessly.

"Chuck said you were thrashin' around actin' like a looney," Newt said, after a moment of no one speaking. Alby looked at Minho a little longer, then seemed to decide that it wasn't worth it. He words came out in a wheeze, if they would take a week off of his life.

"Everything's gonna change. The girl… Thomas… I saw them." His eyelids flickered closed, then opened again; he sank back into a flat position on the bed, stared at the ceiling. "Don't feel so good."

"What do you mean you saw—" Newt began.

"I wanted Thomas!" Alby abruptly yelled, with a sudden burst of energy that Thomas would've thought impossible seconds earlier. "I didn't ask for you Newt! Or Minho! I asked for _Thomas!"_

Newt looked up, questioning Thomas with raised eyebrows. Thomas shrugged, feeling sicker by the second.

"Fine, ya grouchy lug," Newt said. "He's right here—talk to him."

"Leave," Alby said, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy.

"No _way…_ I wanna hear."

"Newt." A pause. "Leave. Now." Thomas felt incredibly awkward, worried about what Newt was thinking and dreading what Alby wanted to say to him.

"But—"

" _Out!_ " Alby sat up as he yelled, his voice cracking with the strain of it. He scooted himself back to lean against the headboard again. "Get out! And take Minho with you!"

Newt's face sank in obvious hurt—Thomas was surprised to see no anger there. Then, after a long, tense moment, Newt stood from his chair and walked over to the door that Minho held open. He stared Thomas in the eye, a fierce look that Thomas clearly understood as _Tell me everything_. Thomas nodded.

Newt looked over his shoulder. "Don't expect me to kiss your arse when you come saying sorry," he told Alby and stepped into the hallway, Minho in tow.

"Close the door!" Alby shouted, one final insult. Newt complied, slamming it. Thomas thought he could hear Newt telling Minho to run and get a glass.

Thomas's heart quickened—he was now alone with a guy who'd had mood problems _before_ getting attacked by a Griever and going through the Changing. He hoped Alby would say what he wanted and be done with it.

"I know who you are," Alby said softly.

Thomas didn't know how to respond to that, though a part of him wanted to tell Alby _Please enlighten me._ But he was utterly confused. And scared.

"I know who you are," Alby repeated. "Seen it. Seen everything. Where we came from. Who you are, who the girl is. I remember the Flare."

 _The Flare?_ Thomas forced himself to speak. "I have no idea what you're talking about. What did you see? I would love to know who I am."

"I saw you assisting, you—" Alby started, then suddenly grabbed his own throat, making gurgly choking sounds. His legs kicked out and he rolled onto his side, thrashing back and forth as if someone else were trying to strangle him. His tongue stuck out of his mouth; he bit it over and over.

Thomas stood up quickly, stumbled backward, horrified—Alby struggled as if he was having a seizure, his legs kicking in every direction. The dark skin of his face, which had been oddly pale just a minute ago, had turned purple, his eyes rolled up so far in their sockets they looked like glowing white marbles.

"Alby?" Thomas stumbled over to him. " _Newt!"_

The door flung open immediately. Thomas was correct in believing he was just on the other side of the door—probably with his ear pressed to it, while Minho—who wasn't with him anymore—was presumably off getting a glass.

Newt ran to Alby and grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing with his whole body to pin the convulsing body to the bed. "Grab his legs!"

Thomas moved forward, but Alby's legs kicked and flailed out, making it impossible to get any closer. His foot hit Thomas in the jaw; a lance of pain shot through his face. He stumbled backward again, rubbing the sore spot.

"Just do it!"

Thomas steeled himself, then jumped on top of Alby's body, grabbing both legs and pining them to the bed. He wrapped his arms around the boy's thighs and squeezed while Newt put a knee on one of Alby's shoulders, the grabbed at Alby's hands, still clasped around his own neck.

" _Let go!_ " Newt tugged. "You're bloody killin' yourself!"

Thomas could see the muscles in Newt's arm flexing, veins popping out as he pulled at Alby's hands, until finally, inch by inch, he was able to pry them away. He pushed them tightly against the struggling boy's chest. Alby's whole body jerked a couple of times, his midsection thrusting up and away from the bed. Then slowly, he calmed, and a few seconds later he lay still, his breathing evening, his eyes glazed over.

Thomas held firmly to Alby's legs. Afraid to move and set the boy off again. Nest waited a full minute before he slowly let go of Alby's hands. Then another minute before he pulled his knee back and stood up. Thomas took that as his cue to do the same, hoping the ordeal had truly ended.

Alby looked up, eyes droopy, as if he was on the edge of slipping into a deep sleep. "I'm sorry, Newt," he whispered. "Don't know what happened. It was like… something was controlling my body. I'm sorry…"

Thomas took a deep breath, sure he'd never experience something so disturbing and uncomfortable again. He hoped.

"Sorry?" Newt replied. "You were trying to bloody _kill_ yourself."

"Wasn't me—I swear," Alby murmured.

Newt threw his hands up. "What do you mean it wasn't you?"

"I don't know… It wasn't me." Alby looked just as confused a Thomas felt.

But Newt seemed to think it wasn't worth trying to figure out. At least not at the moment. He grabbed the blankets that had fallen off the bed in Alby's struggle and pulled them atop the sick boy. "Go back to sleep and we'll talk about it later." He patted him on the head gingerly. Tucking the sheets in with warm care.

But Alby was already drifting off, nodding slightly as his eyes closed.

Newt caught Thomas's gaze and gestured for the door. Thomas had no problem leaving that crazy house—he followed Newt down the hall, thinking not of the way their leader had just attempted to murder himself, but the way Newt had just wrapped the sheets around Alby so delicately. And everything suddenly fell into place.

Newt had been by Alby's side since his return. He had been panicked and worried when he thought Minho and Alby weren't going to make it back. Thomas had thought it was just concern for his friends. But the way he had run around in a frenzy, checking each of the doors. When he had fallen to his knees in tears as they'd gotten locked out. And the way he _looked_ at Alby just now, with so much care and concern. _He's never looked at me like that,_ Thomas thought. The way Newt had looked so _hurt_ when Alby yelled at him. Thomas recognized that face. It had been on his own face when Newt yelled _him_. And why would Newt be _expecting_ an apology from Alby? _Kid can't hide anything from me._ The words tumbled across Thomas's brain. _He's always running around here doing what he wants to. And he's the only one who can get away with it._ It all made perfect since now. Why else had Alby been so amused to find out Thomas and Newt had been together?

Newt was in love with Alby.

And Alby knew it.


	27. 27

Thomas felt his heart sink. Every rope that clung him to the Earth seemed to snap and he almost fell to his knees, catching himself on the wall. How could Newt make him feel like this after less than a _week?_

"Tommy?" Newt asked, after seeing him stumble. But Thomas couldn't respond. "Tommy?" More concerned now. _But still not as concerned as he just was for Alby_ , Thomas found himself thinking.

"You love him," Thomas told the floor. It wasn't an accusation it was simply a statement.

Newt looked at him for a moment his eyes wide, then they fell to floor and Thomas almost cried as he realized his assumption was right. A part of him had been wishing that his revelation had been wrong. But he was _right_ …

"Clever, you are," Newt said to the floor. But this time, it didn't sound like the compliment it had been before. "You figured that out."

"So what is this? What am I?" Thomas asked, looking at Newt. He was surprised to find his voice calm. None of his sadness broke through. Newt didn't answer him. Thomas wanted to scream, punch Newt and another part of him wanted to grab Newt and hold him, never letting go. But he didn't. he rose from the floor and continued down the hall. They simply walked in silence.

"Are you hungry, Tommy?" Newt asked when they were outside.

Thomas couldn't believe the question. "Hungry? No, I'm not hungry."

Newt sighed. "Well, I am. Let's go look for some leftovers from lunch. We need to talk."

They made their way in silence directly to the kitchen, where despite Frypan's grumbling, they were able to get cheese sandwiches and raw vegetables. They decided to eat their lunches outside, and a few minutes later they found themselves at the west wall, looking out at the many work activities going on throughout the Glade, their backs up against a spot of thick ivy. Thomas found that he didn't have to force himself to eat. His silent walk across the Glade had given him time to think.

It was completely his own fault he was in this situation. He had been the fool for letting himself fall so hard for someone after such a short period. Yes he was in love with Newt. There was no denying that. But there was also no denying that Newt was in love with Alby.

"I like you Tommy," Newt said to his carrot. He was silent for a moment. Thomas didn't know what to say so he didn't say anything. "I just… I just…"

"Love _him?_ " Thomas supplied, calmly. Newt looked at ground.

"Yeah." They were silent for a moment. "But—"

"How long have you known?"

"That I love him? Almost as long as we've been here." Thomas didn't know why he'd wanted that information. It just made him feel worse. For some reason he felt like a home wrecker.

"Were you thinking about him when you were with me that night?" Thomas found that this was really disturbing him.

" _No_. It was _your_ name I was moaning, wa'nit? Tommy—" Newt reached out to touch him but seem to think better of it.

"Have you ever seen that before?" Thomas found that he didn't want to discuss this anymore. Newt didn't love him. He loved Alby. That was that.

Newt looked at him, as if he wanted to press the subject but seemed think better of it, relenting. "What Alby just did? No. Never. But then again, no one's ever tried to tell us what they remembered during the Changing. They refuse to and Ben just told us how it _felt_. Alby tried—must be why he went nuts for a while."

Thomas paused in the middle of chewing, all thoughts of his tragic love life momentarily forgotten. Could the people behind the Maze _control_ them somehow? It was terrifying to think about it.

And abruptly Newt was kissing him. Despite the confusing feelings he felt toward him right now, Thomas's heart still thumped in his chest as he grabbed the back of the older boy's head and pulled him closer, kissing back. Thomas couldn't help sighing. This was still Newt after all. The boy he loved. Newt's tongue casually slipped into Thomas's mouth and fondled with his. Thomas felt as if his body was melting. Their tongues touching somehow simply made the kiss _better_. Newt straddled Thomas's lap as Thomas had done his before, and Thomas got a good grip of the boy's cheeks in his hands. Newt cupped Thomas face with his and then pulled back.

"I still want to make you and me work," he said, his brow furrowed in sincerity, staring into silver with those deep green eyes. "Alby is straight as an arrow. He knows and he just doesn't feel that way, and he never will. You can help me get over him. I like you, Tommy. I _do_. A lot."

"Yeah, but," Thomas looked down at the ground, almost ashamed that he held such heavy emotions for Newt already. Thomas spoke so quietly it was almost a whisper. "But I _love_ you."

Newt lifted Thomas chin. "I'll get there." And Thomas couldn't help smiling. "Come on." He stood, pulling Thomas to his feet as well. "We have to find Gally." Newt stooped and grabbed the sandwiches and carrots they had both inattentively dropped. Thomas couldn't help watching the tight backside that he'd just had two handfuls of. He was compelled to smack and grip it, but the impulse died as Newt straightened up. "Buggers gone off and hid somewhere. I need to find him and throw his arse in jail."

"Serious?" Thomas couldn't help feeling a shot of pure elation at the thought. He'd be happy to slam the door closed and throw away the key himself.

"That bloody shank threatened to kill you and we have to make sure it never happens again. That shuckface is going to pay a heavy price for acting like that. I'm an _embarrassing_ leader. I'll show him…

"Okay. Here's how it'll play out. You're with me the rest of the day—we need to figure things. Tomorrow, the Slammer. Then you're Minho's, and I want you to stay away from the other shanks for a while. Got it?"

Despite recent events and considering others, Thomas was happy to oblige. "Sounds beautiful. So Minho's gonna train me?"

"That's right—you're a Runner now. Minho'll teach ya. The Maze, the Maps, everything. Lots to learn. I expect you to work your arse off."

Thomas was surprised that entering the Maze again didn't frighten him all that much. Then Newt got around to what he really wanted to talk about. He looked Thomas in the eye. This was serious.

"Tommy," he began, "I need you to accept something. We've heard it too many times now to deny it, and it's time we discuss it."

Thomas knew what was coming, but was startled. He dreaded the words. Almost as much as their previous conversation.

"Gally said it. Alby said it. Ben said it. They all saw you in the Changing.—and from what I gather you weren't plantin' flowers and helpin' old ladies cross the street. According to Gally and Ben there's something rotten enough about you to kill ya."

"Newt I don't know—" Thomas started, but Newt cut him off.

"I _know_ you don't remember anything, Tommy!" he interrupted patiently yet still forcefully. "So stop saying it—don't ever say that again. _None_ of us remember anything, and it's not comforting with you running around reminding us. The point is there's something different about you, and it's time you accepted it. The sooner you do, the sooner you can help us figured it out."

"Fine," Thomas agreed. "So how do we do it? I want to know who I am just as much as anyone else."

"I need you to open your mind. Be honest if anything— _anythin'_ seems familiar."

"I told you everything, already." But Thomas instantly realized that was a lie. So much had happened since his arrival that he'd almost forgotten how familiar the Glade had felt to him that first night, sleeping next to Chuck, how comfortable and at _home_ he'd felt. A far cry from the terror he should've experienced.

"I can see your wheels spinnin'. Talk."

Thomas hesitated, remembering how Newt had reacted to his confessions about the girl. But he was tired of keeping secrets. "Well… I can't put my finger on anything specific." He spoke slowly, carefully. "But I did feel like I'd been here before when I first got here." He looked up at the taller boy, hoping to see some sort of recognition in his eyes. "Anyone else go through that?"

Newt's face was blank. "Uh… no. Most of us spent at least a week bawlin' our eyes out in corners. 'Snother reason you're so peculiar. You just slipped into the flow of things like there was no issue."

"Yeah, well." Thomas paused, suddenly embarrassed. What did it all mean? _Was_ he different from everyone else somehow? Was something wrong with him? "It all seemed familiar to me, and I knew I wanted to be a Runner."

Newt studied him for a second, his face suspicious and concerned. "From now on, think about it. Pay attention. Tell me anything that seems even remotely familiar. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Good that," Newt said, looking almost too agreeable. "To begin, we'd better go see someone."

"Who?" Thomas asked, but knew the answer as soon as he spoke. Dread filled him again.

"The girl. I want you to look at her, see if it triggers something."

Thomas sighed. "Okay." And in mentioning her, Thomas remembered something else. "Also," he said looking at that ground, as they set off. "I feel some kind of connection to the girl. Like… she has something that belongs to me. I don't know."

Newt's brow furrowed in concern. "Yes, you're about to go stare at her until your eyes bleed," he said quickening their pace.

The boys walked, almost ran, back to the Homestead, back to the comatose girl. Thomas couldn't stifle his worry about what Newt was thinking. He'd opened himself up, and despite recent information, he still loved Newt. If Newt turned on him now, Thomas didn't know if he could handle it.

"If all else fails," Newt said, interrupting Thomas's thoughts, "we'll send ya to the Grievers—get ya stung so you can go through the Changing. We _need_ your memories."

Thomas barked a sarcastic laugh at the idea, but Newt wasn't smiling.

ooo

The girl seemed to be sleeping peacefully, like she'd wake up at any minute. Thomas had almost expected the skeletal remnant of a person—someone on the verge of death. But her chest rose and fell with even breaths; her skin was full of color.

One of the Med-jacks was there, the shorter one—Thomas couldn't remember his name—dropping water into the girl's mouth a few drops at a time. A plate and bowl on the bedside table had the remains of her lunch—mashed potatoes and soup. They were doing everything possible to keep her alive and healthy.

"Hey, Clint," Newt said, sounding comfortable, like he'd stopped by to visit many times before. "She surviving?"

"Yeah," Clint answered. "She's doing fine, though she talks in her sleep all the time. We think she'll come out if it soon."

Thomas felt his hackles rise. For some reason, he'd never really considered the possibility that the girl might wake up someday. That she might talk to people. What if she felt the same way about him that he felt about her? What if she accused him of things?

"Have you written down every words she says?" Newt asked.

Clint nodded. "Most of it is gibberish. But, yeah, when we can."

Newt pointed at the notepad on the nightstand. "Give me an example."

"Well, the same thing she said when she came up in the box, about things changing. Other stuff about the Creators and how 'it all has to end'. And, uh…" Clint glanced at Thomas as if he didn't want to continue conversing in his company.

"It's okay—he can hear whatever I hear." Thomas felt a warm of affection for Newt. Had Clint not been standing there he would've kissed him. But Clint's next words changed his mood instantly.

"Well… I can't make it all out but…" Clint glanced at Thomas again. "She keeps saying _his_ name over and over."

Thomas almost fainted at this. Would the references to him never end? So he _did_ know this girl. Or she knew him at least. It was like a maddening itch inside his skull that wouldn't go away.

"Thanks, Clint," Newt said, in what sounded to Thomas like an obvious dismissal. "Get us a report of all that okay."

"Will do." The Med-jack nodded at the both of them and left the room.

"Pull up a chair," Newt said as if he were inviting Thomas to have a drink with him. He sat on the edge of the bed. Thomas, relieved that Newt hadn't yet erupted into accusations, grabbed the one from the desk and placed it right next to where the girl's lay; he sat, leaning forward to look at her face.

"Anything?" Newt asked. "Anything at all?"

Thomas didn't respond; he simply kept looking, willing his mind to break down the memory barrier and seek out the girl from his past. He thought back to those brief, frightening moments when she'd opened her eyes in the Box.

They had been blue. An ocean blue. He tried to picture those eyes on her now as he looked at her slumbering face, melding the two images in his mind. He black hair, and flawless skin. Perfect lips. As he stared at her, he remembered the question Minho had asked him. Yes. This girl was beautiful. She was surly what any straight man would call 'hot'. But Thomas felt no sexual attraction to her.

However, stronger recognition briefly tickled the back of his mind—a flutter of wings in a dark corner, unseen, but there all the same. It lasted only an instant before vanishing into the abyss of his other captured memories. But he'd _felt_ something.

"I do know her." He leaned back in the chair.

Newt stood from the corner of the bed. "What? Who is she?"

"No idea. But… I know her from somewhere," Thomas said leaning forward to scrutinize her again, frustrated that he couldn't solidify the link.

"Well keep bloody thinkin'—don't lose it. Concentrate."

"I'm trying," Thomas said, his frustration seeping into his voice. "So shut up." He closed his eyes, searching the darkness of his mind. Who was this girl? The irony of the question struck him and he almost laughed. He didn't even know who _he_ was.

"I'm sorry. I just don't—"

 _Teresa_.

Thomas jolted up from the chair, knocking it to the floor. He spun in a circle, searching for the speaker.

"What's wrong?" Newt asked, his brow revealing his concern. "Did you remember something?"

"I…" Thomas sat back down, leaning forward, staring at the girl's face. "Newt did you say something before I stood up?"

"No…"

Of course not. "Oh. I thought I heard… Did _she_ say something?"

"Her?" Newt asked, incredulously. "No. Why? What did you hear?"

Thomas was scared to admit it. "I… I swear I heard a name. Teresa."

"Teresa? No. I didn't hear that." His eyes widened in excitement. "Must've sprung loose from your memory! That's her name! Teresa! Has to be, Tommy!"

Thomas felt… odd… uncomfortable, like something supernatural had just occurred. "It was… I _swear_ I heard it. But in my mind, man. I can't explain it."

Newt looked at Thomas bemused. Thomas was sure that Newt currently wandered if he was crazy.

 _Thomas_.

This time he jumped from the chair and scrambled as far from the bed as possible, knocking over the lamp on the table; it landed with the crash of broken glass. A voice. A female voice. Whispery, confident. He had heard it; he knew it.

"What is wrong?" Newt asked, his voice returning to its concerned toned. He came over and wrapped his arms around Thomas's torso.

Thomas heart was racing. He felt the thumps in his skull. Acid boiled in his stomach. "She.. she's _talking_ to me! In my head!" Thomas whispered astounded. "She just said my name!"

"I swear!" Thomas could feel his widened eyes. Thomas pressed the heels of his hands to his temples in disbelief. "I'm hearing her voice in my head or something. It's not… it's not really a voice. It's…" Thomas couldn't explain it.

"Tommy, love," Newt kissed him, a soft and quick peck. He fixed Thomas with those deep green eyes. "Sit down. What are you _bloody_ talking about?"

"Newt, I'm serious!" Thomas whispered vehemently, not sitting down. "It's not… it's… it's not a voice but it is."

 _Tom, we're the last ones. It'll end soon. It has to._

Thomas pressed his hands to his ears, though the sound didn't seem to come from around him. It was by all means inside his head. He couldn't seem to wrap his mind around what was happening.

" _Tommy_." Newt's voice was desperately concerned now.

 _My memory is fading already; I won't remember much when I wake up. This has to end, Tom. They sent me as a trigger._

Thomas couldn't take it anymore. Ignoring Newt's questions and soft kisses, he stumbled to the door, yanked it open, stepped into the hall, and ran—down the stairs, out the door; he ran. He made it to the East Door and bolted down corridor after corridor, attempting to put as much distance between them as possible. But it did no good.

 _Everything is going to change. It was you and me, Tom. We did this to them. To us._


	28. 28

Thomas didn't stop until he was sure the voice had gone for good.

It shocked him to realize he'd been running for almost an hour. The shadows of the wall ran long toward the east, and soon the sun would set for the night and the Doors would close. He had to get back. It only peripherally hit him then that without thinking he'd recognized the direction and the time. His instincts were strong.

He had to get back.

Though he had no doubt that he would make in time, Thomas still felt a little pang of guilt for putting Newt through this worry again. Thomas was a _new_ Runner. He hadn't even been trained yet. Surely Newt would worry about his return. But, Thomas reminded himself, Newt's concern _had_ been more for Alby last time… According to Newt, the feelings between him and Alby were not mutual, but still, Thomas didn't know if he would be able to share Newt's affections with someone else like this. But another part of him greedily felt that even if Newt _were_ involved, he would be willing to receive whatever parts of the boy he could get.

Thomas felt awful from that thought, shamed that he could be the type of person to potentially drive a wedge between two lovers, that he would contemplate thievery if he wanted someone desperately enough.

On and on he ran, left and right, straight, then left again, surprising himself again with his confidence in direction, as he made absentminded turns. By the time he crossed the threshold into the Glade and into the arms of an awaiting Newt, the Doors were minutes from closing. Exhausted, he headed straight for the Deadheads, and went deep into the forest in the direction of where the trees met the southwest corner. More than anything, he wanted to be alone.

When he could hear only the sounds of distant Glader conversations and faint echoes of bleating sheep and snorting pigs, he collapsed against the wall to rest. No one came. No one bothered him. The south wall eventually moved, closing for the night. He leaned forward until it stopped.

Minutes later, his back once again comfortably pressed against thick layers of vines, he fell asleep, having disturbing dreams that night. Dreams in which he didn't know he was dreaming. Ones where he was softly making love to Newt in one of the beds of the Homestead, when the voice of the girl would petulantly enter his head during, stealing his attention from the intense moment. _We did this to them, Tom. To us._ And others where Alby would burst into the room and take Newt from him, replacing Thomas in the bed, implementing a more vigorous loving that Newt seemed to enjoy more. And others where Gally interrupted and viciously murdered them both with his bare hands.

Thankfully, someone gently shook him awake.

"Thomas wake up." It was Chuck. The boy seemed to able to find him anywhere and Thomas was grateful that the boy had interrupted his disconcerting dreams.

Groaning, Thomas leaned forward and stretched out his back and arms. A couple of blankets had been placed over him during the night. Thomas assumed by Newt.

"What time is it?"

"You're almost too late for breakfast." Chuck tugged on his arm. "Come on; get up. You need to start acting normal or things will just get worse."

The events of the previous day, the source of his upsetting dreams, came crashing into Thomas's mind, and his stomach seemed to twist inside out. Gally's death threat. Alby's suicide attempt. Newt's love for him. The girl—

The _girl_. She was the worst. She was making Thomas think he was crazy. Maybe the stress of the maze had driven him mad. Either way, only _he_ had heard the voice. No one else knew what she had said.

And Thomas would keep it that way. He would tell no one but Newt whom he trusted unequivocally. He would also confess his doubts of his sanity.

Chuck was looking at him with eyebrows raised.

"Sorry," Thomas said as he stood up, acting as normal as he could. "Just thinking. Let's eat, I'm starving."

"Good that," Chuck said, slapping Thomas on the back.

They headed for the Homestead, Chuck yapping the whole time. Thomas wasn't complaining—it was the closest thing to normal in his life.

"Newt found you last night and told everyone to let you sleep. _And_ he told us what the Council decided about you—one day in the cell, then you'll enter the Runner training program. Some shanks grumbled, some cheered, most acted like they couldn't care less. As for me, I think it's pretty awesome." Chuck paused to take breath, then continued on. "That first night, when you were bragging about being a Runner and all that klunk—fuck it, I was laughing inside so hard. I kept telling myself, this sucker's in for a rude awakening. Well you proved _me_ wrong, huh?"

Thomas shrugged. "I just did what anyone else would've done. It's not my fault Minho and Newt want me to be a Runner."

Chuck elbowed him. "Quit being modest. You didn't see Newt or me running out there to help. And from what I remember, _you_ wanted to be a Runner too." He remembered that.

"I guess I'm a little excited." Thomas forced a smile. He cringed at the thought of being in the Slammer _alone_. He would be in there throughout the day. Newt wouldn't be able to sit with him. Wait. How could they put him in the Slammer with the guy that threatened to kill him?

"Hey, Chuck," Thomas said, "did they ever find Gally?"

"No—I was gonna tell you. Someone said they saw him run out in the Maze after he left the Gathering. Hasn't been seen since."

All thoughts of food shot out of Thomas's mind like the road runner that Thomas could mysteriously remember seeing on some old cartoon. He stopped walking, stunned. "What? You're serious? He went out in the Maze?"

"Yeah," Chuck responded, continuing his way toward the food as if he were refusing to stop, and forcing Thomas to move with him. Everyone knows he went nuts—a few shanks even accused you of killing him when you ran out there yesterday."

Thomas stared at his plate, trying to fathom why Gally would do that. He was just concluding that he—nor probably could _anyone_ —understand the mysteries of a maniac like Gally's mind, when Chuck spoke.

"Don't stress, dude. No one liked him anyways. Well, except for his few shuck cronies. They're the ones accusing you of stuff."

Thomas couldn't believe how casually Chuck spoke about it. "You know the, the guy is probably dead." Thomas was surprised at how much that thought pleased him. "You're talking about him like he went on vacation."

"I don't think he's dead," Chuck said with dubious look.

"Then where is he? Aren't Minho and I the only one's who's survived a night out there?"

"Exactly. I don't think he's _out_ there. A few shanks—some of his cronies no doubt—say they witnessed him running out there, when no one else did. I think they're hiding him somewhere in the Glade. Gally couldn't possibly think he could survive a night out there like you did. Sure he's insane—without a doubt. But he's not an idiot."

Thomas shook his head. "Maybe that's _exactly_ why he stayed out there—attempting to prove he can do anything I can. The guy hates me." Pause. "Hated me."

"Well… oh well. If he's dead, you guys will probably find him eventually. If he's not, he'll get hungry and show up. I don't care."

"All I want is one normal day—one to relax."

"Then your wish is granted," said that wonderfully familiar voice. "Come on jailbird. You can eat in the Slammer. Chucky bring him something."

Newt redirected Thomas's course and suddenly, a day in prison sounded magnificent. A day to just relax.

Though something told Thomas there was a better chance of Gally bringing him flowers than of passing a day in the Glade without a strange occurrence.


	29. 29

Thomas had repositioned the chair up against the wall. The previous occupant had either not been smart enough to do this, or _had_ been and overturned it in their hasty exit.

The first hour passed, and Thomas felt boredom creep in and disperse like fog from dry ice. By hour number two, he wanted to bang his head against the wall. Two hours after that, he he'd begun to think that having dinner with Gally and the Grievers would beat sitting inside that stupid Slammer.

Thankfully, Newt arrived with lunch at noon, relieving Thomas from his thoughts.

"I'm supposed to pass this through the window," he said unlocking the door, "but this is also kind of my excuse to come and see you." He came in smiling warmly and closed the door behind him. Just like before, Thomas removed himself from the chair, crossing his legs in the floor next to it and Newt sat the chicken and a glass of water in his place.

"I can't stay long," Newt said, as if he were displeased by the thought. He sat cross legged in front of Thomas, placing his knees against the younger boy's. "This is your reward for breakin' the rules. You saved some lives, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Order," Thomas mumbled as he leaned forward and kissed Newt. It was intended to be a soft, quick peck, something to cut off the lecture Thomas could sense coming, but Newt seemed to have been waiting for it. He passionately accepted for a moment, his hands making light squeezes down Thomas side. Then he pulled back.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he whispered with a shake of his head, eyes still closed.

"You want this," Thomas said kindly but pointedly. "Or else you wouldn't have come in." He looked at Newt with an eyebrow raised. "Or closed the door," he added.

Newt opened his mouth to respond but Thomas swiftly leaned back in promptly shutting him up with another kiss, slipping his tongue into Newt's open mouth. As their tongues fondled each other, Thomas felt a _strong_ wave of affection for Newt. He wanted to please him. Physically. And they were alone. That didn't happen often. The thought of it made Thomas nervous. _Yes_ , they had done this before. But _Newt_ had initiated it.

Hesitantly, and without breaking the kiss, Thomas itched the hand that wasn't caressing Newt's face slowly across his lap and into Newt's, where he could feel the boy's erection through his pants. With a burst of courage, Thomas gently stroked it.

Newt's reaction was instant. He pulled back, with a light smile on his face. Even though Newt's withdrawal was a clear rejection, his smile made Thomas sigh in relief. But still…

"What?" Thomas asked, as he bravely continued to rubbed the boy. There was a struggled expression in Newt's smile, as if he were torn between two options. Thomas could guess what they were. "I know you want to," he coaxed, rubbing a little more firmly.

Newt shook his head. "No. I shouldn't've come in," he mumbled.

"What?" Thomas repeated, lightly kissing him, still stroking. Newt felt rock solid beneath him now. Yes. Newt definitely wanted this too. "No one's going to bother us. They're all eating lunch."

"Yeah," Newt said, obviously struggling now, "but they know where I am. And if I don't come back they'll get suspicious. They're already curious as to why I came instead of sendin' somebody else. I mean, no one _asked_ but the question was obvious and so was the answer. Tommy, I really want this—I _really_ do." Newt shrugged his hip forward against Thomas's hand for emphasis. "You don't know half of the things I want to do to you right now. But If I—"

"Tell me," Thomas interrupted, with a light curious smile. "Tell me what you want."

Newt stared directly into Thomas's silver eyes, and without flinching or hesitating he spoke, as if commenting on the fair weather. "I want to slam you up against the wall and fuck bloody hell out you. I want to shove my dick so far up your arse it's gets _lost_ in there. I want to make you _scream my name_." A small huff from shock escaped Thomas. He was stunned yet mesmerized at Newt's bold bluntness. Thomas found that he _liked_ it. It was exiting. And the boy's thick accent laced in there simply made the words sound even more enticing. Thomas felt his blood heat up as Newt continued in the same conversational tone. "And then, after I've filled you up with my come, I want you to _rip_ my pants down, _throw_ me on the floor, and return the favor."

Thomas spoke softly, almost a whisper. "That sounds wonderful," was the only corny response he could come up with. Things had gotten extremely intense, extremely fast. Thomas could picture it happening, could practically _feel_ Newt inside of him. With _aggressiveness_ … Maybe it would hurt at first—

"But I can't," Newt sighed, interrupting his fantasy. "If I take too long they'll know what we're up to. Especially Alby."

This was an intense moment, but a line like that would have snatched Thomas's attention out anything. Well, _almost_ anything.

"Alby's back up?" he asked.

"Yeah," Newt said, smiling, his relief apparent. "He's fine and I'm glad I don't have to be the boss anymore."

At the mention of Alby, a flash of guilt traced Newt's face. Thomas was extremely curious as to why Alby's name would cause it. In that moment, he grew protective of Newt. What had happened? Thomas felt his heart clinch. Had Newt and Alby done something together? _No,_ Thomas thought defiantly. Newt wouldn't do that to Thomas, he was sure of it. But this _was_ Alby, the young man he was in love with…

"Newt, what's up?" Thomas asked a little apprehensively, completely failing to keep his voice steady.

"What?" Newt responded with genuine shock. "Why would you ask that?"

Thomas wasn't going to beat around the bush. He wanted answers. If Newt could be bold, so could he. "You look guilty. What have you done?" He attempted to use the same casual tone Newt had.

Newt's hesitation only increased Thomas's worry. "Newt, why are you hesitating?" he asked, his calmed voice cracking. Newt's face returned to the struggled expression from before, but obviously for a completely different reason now. "Newt?" Thomas couldn't stop his voice from slowly rising. There was clearly something Newt didn't want to tell him. What was so bad that Newt couldn't tell him?

"I don't want lie to you," he said finally in a strained toned.

"Then _don't,"_ Thomas said, as if were the answer to a simple math problem.

"But I don't want—"

"If you don't tell me," Thomas said, his voice suddenly growing soft again, "I'm only going to assume the worst."

Newt looked at him with a torn expression and his eyes widened as he read Thomas's.

"No!" he said sincerely. "It's nothing like that—I told you. Alby is _straight._ And I'm with _you._ I want us to work. I—"

"Then what _is_ it?" Thomas was getting frustrated. A part of him honestly didn't want to know. Whatever it was, it was clearly going to upset him, or Newt wouldn't feel guilty about it.

They older boy dropped his blonde head. "I may have told Alby what you told me about the girl. How you said you know her."

Thomas was stunned into a moment of silence. Newt didn't break it. He apparently didn't know what to say.

"You _may_ have? Either you did or didn't." Thomas said, a little forcefully although he already knew the answer. And he couldn't believe Newt would break a promise like that.

"I did…"

"I asked you not to tell him that," Thomas responded, gravely soft.

"I _know,"_ Newt responded his face twisted with grief, "but he _weaseled_ it out of me. He was telling me how he remembered you and her in the Changing and—"

"I'm not upset," Thomas said, his voice rising again—he was grateful that it was not yet a yell, "because you told him. After what I saw and heard yesterday I was beginning to agree with you. He needed to know. I might have told him myself. I'm upset because you broke a promise. I asked you not to tell him and you said you wouldn't." Thomas couldn't completely comprehend his devastation.

"Tommy I…" Newt sighed a defeated sigh. "I don't want to argue. I should get back," Newt resolutely said, standing.

"Yeah. You should." And Thomas turned his head on him.


	30. 30

Just after Thomas heard the grind and rumble of stone against stone announce the closing of the Doors for the day, Alby came to release him, which kind of wasn't a surprise. The metal of key and lock jingled; then the door to cell swung open to reveal his frame. Thomas was surprised to find he held the same respect for his leader. Despite this morning's transpirings, there was no resentment. Mostly because yes Thomas was angry that Newt had broken a promise, But as the day had gone by, Thomas had realized that he was mostly angry because his suppressed bitterness from Newt's love for Alby was finally seeping through at the first opportunity. And Thomas couldn't be angry with Alby for that. Alby couldn't help who did and did not love him.

"Ain't dead, are ya, shank?" Alby asked, interrupting his thoughts. Alby looked much better than the day before. Thomas couldn't help staring. His skin was back to its full color and the crisscrossed veins were gone from his eyes. He seemed to have gained fifteen pounds in twenty four hours.

"What you starin' at?" Alby asked a little forcefully, noting him goggling.

Thomas shook his head slightly, feeling like he'd been in a trance. His mind was racing, wondering what Alby remembered, what he knew, what he might say about him. "Nothing." Thomas smiled. "Just seems crazy how you healed so quickly. You're fine now?"

Alby flexed his right bicep. "Never better. Now come out of there."

Thomas did, hoping his eyes weren't flickering, revealing his concern.

Alby closed the door, and locked it, then turned to him. "Actually, nothin' but a lie. I feel like crap."

"Yeah. You looked like it yesterday." When Alby glared, Thomas hoped it was in jest and quickly clarified. "But today you look brand new. I swear."

Alby put the keys in his pocket and leaned back against the Slammer's door. "So. Quite the little talk we had yesterday."

Thomas's heart pounded. He had no idea what to expect from Alby at that point.

"Newt told me, he was listening in." Alby rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I'm not surprised, the nosey shank. He also told me about you and the girl. _Teresa_ he said you said her name was." Thomas felt the almost forgotten bitterness toward Newt seep back in. Newt had told him _everything._ Of course he had. He was in love with him. Newt would probably give this boy whatever he asked for just as Thomas would do for Newt. "And that just confirmed some of what I saw, Greenie. It's kinda fadin', but I'm not gonna forget. It was terrible. Tried to talk about it and something starts choking me. Now the images are slippin' like the same something don't want me rememberin'."

The scene from the day before flashed through Thomas's mind. Alby thrashing, trying to strangle himself—Thomas wouldn't have believed it had he not seen it himself. Despite fearing the answer, he knew he had to ask the next question. "You say you _saw_ me. W—what was I doing?"

Alby stared at him. "You were with the Creators. You were helping them."

Thomas felt like someone had just rammed their fist in his abdomen. Helping them? He couldn't form the words to ask what that meant. Alby continued. "But that ain't what got me shook up. I hope the Changing doesn't give us real memories—just plants fake ones. Some suspect it—I can only hope. If the world's the way I saw it…" He trailed off, leaving an ominous silence. Thomas was confused, but pressed on.

"Can't you tell me what you saw about me?" Alby shook his head fervently.

 _"Hell,_ naw. Ain't gonna risk stranglin' myself again. Probably something they got in our brains to control us—just like the memory wipe."

"Well, if I'm evil, maybe you should leave me locked up." Thomas half meant it.

"Greenie, you ain't evil," Alby said with a smack of his lips. "Foolishness. You might be a shuck-faced slinthead, but you ain't evil." Alby showed the slightest hint of a smile, a bare crack in his usually hard face. "You saved Minho's and my life. _And_ Ben's, _after_ he tried to kill you. That ain't no evil I've ever heard of. Nah, just makes me think the Grief Serum and the Changing got somethin' fishy about 'em. For your sake and mine, I hope so."

Thomas was so relieved that Alby thought he was okay, he only heard about half of what the older boy had just said.

"How bad was it? Your memories that came back."

"I remembered things from growin' up, where I lived, that sort of stuff. And if God himself came down right now and told me I could go back home…" Alby looked to the ground and shook his head again. "If it was real, Greenie, I swear I'd go shack up with the Grievers before goin' back."

Thomas was surprised to hear it was so bad—he wished Alby would give details, describe something, anything. But he knew the choking was still too fresh in Alby's mind for him to budge.

"Well, hopefully they're not real, Alby. Maybe the Grief Serum is some kind of psycho drug that gives you hallucinations." Thomas knew he was grasping at straws. Alby thought for a minute.

"A drug …hallucinations…" Then he shook his head. "Doubt it." It had been worth a try.

"We still have to escape this place."

"Yeah, thanks, Greenie," Alby said sarcastically. "Don't know what we'd do without your pep talks." Again, the almost-smile. Alby's change of mood broke Thomas out of his gloom.

"Quit calling me Greenie. The girl's the Greenie now."

"Okay, Greenie." Alby sighed, clearly done with the conversation. "Go find some dinner."

Despite wanting answers, Thomas was ready to get away from the Slammer. Plus, he was starving. He grinned at Alby, then headed straight for the kitchen and food.

Dinner looked awesome, and though he was starving, Thomas couldn't eat much of it. There was too much on his mind. Alby and the Changing, his first day as a Runner, but mostly, his new discovery of Newt's love for Alby. Yet Thomas was still grateful to Frypan who had known Thomas would be coming late, so he'd left a plate full of roast beef, potatoes, and broccoli; a note announced there were cookies in the cupboard. The Cook seemed fully intent on backing up the support he'd shown for Thomas in the Gathering.

Thomas found an empty picnic table and settled in, poking at his food. Thomas really wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. But that was hard to come by around here.

"Got a big day ahead of you tomorrow. You ready to thank me yet?" Minho asked as he invited himself to Thomas's table. Thomas simply nodded, taking a bite of the moist potato after inspecting it for hairs. He could feel Minho eyeing him.

"What eating at you?" he asked, bumping Thomas's arm with his own.

"Nothing." Minho gave Thomas a dubious look. Thomas poked at the broccoli with his fork.

"Come on. Talk to me." Minho placed his palm over the back of Thomas's other hand, with a look of what appeared to be genuine concern. Minho was always surprising Thomas. There was more to him than just the snarky teen Thomas had met at gate of the Maze. Thomas really needed someone to talk to. Who else did he have? Ben? _Chuck?_

Thomas sighed, dropping his fork. It clattered on the plate. "It's Newt," he told his half eaten food. "He's in love with Alby." Minho sighed, as if he were expecting something like this.

"Yeah," he said. "I figured that out the hard way too. Honestly it's the main reason why I never pursued anything serious with him." He gave Thomas's hand a light rub. "How do you feel?"

"I shouldn't have fallen so hard for him so fast. I don't know if I can share his affections like this." It felt good admitting that out loud. "I beginning to learn that I'm a selfish guy."

Minho sighed. "Finish eating and get some sleep. You'll figure this out. Tomorrow will take your mind off it. I promise."

When they were finished, Thomas headed back to the secluded place where he'd slept the night before, in the corner behind the Deadheads.

Several boys milled about the Glade that night, but for the most part it was quiet, like everyone just wanted to go to sleep, end the day and be done with it. Thomas didn't complain—that was exactly what he needed.

The blankets someone had left for him the night before still lay there. He picked them up and settled in, snuggling up against the comforting corner where the stone walls met in a mass of soft ivy. The mixed smells of the forest greeted him as he took his first deep breath, trying to relax. The air felt perfect, and it made him wonder again about the weather of the place. Never rained, never snowed, never got too hot or too cold. If it weren't for the little fact they were torn apart from friends and families and trapped in a Maze with a bunch of monsters, it could be paradise. Some things here were too perfect. He knew that, but had no explanation.

Thomas had confusing dreams that night. Dreams in which he was making love to Newt in one of the homestead's beds. But this time it was Minho who interrupted, coming in and shoving Newt from atop Thomas and onto the floor.

"Now are you going to fuck me or not?" Minho asked him as Thomas lay there in the bed, penis still standing erect.


	31. 31

Minho woke Thomas before dawn. Thomas would've preferred to have woken by _anyone_ else at that moment. Maybe even Gally. Because the sheet had slipped off him during his slumber, and he once again found himself hiding an erection from the star of his dreams. And this time, the star noticed.

"Having happy dreams?" Minho asked smirking, as he glanced down to Thomas's bulging crotch with raised eyebrows. Thomas tried and failed not to blush. "Were they about me?" Minho joked. And this only made Thomas blush harder. The smirk left Minho's face, as his eyebrows went even higher with shock. Thomas was sure he looked like a tomato. Minho quickly replaced his stunned expression with the smirk from before and stuck out his hand to pull Thomas up.

Thomas took it, still fighting away his blush and Minho politely ignored him, motioning with a flashlight for Thomas to him follow back to the Homestead. Despite the embarrassing wake-up call, Thomas was still excited to begin his training with Minho. He eagerly followed his teacher, winding his way through the crowd of Gladers who slept on the lawn, their snores the only sign they weren't dead.

The slightest glow of early morning illuminated the Glade, turning everything dark blue and shadowed. Thomas had never seen the place look so peaceful. A cock crowed in the Blood House.

Finally, in a crooked cranny near a back corner of the Homestead, Minho pulled out a key and opened up a shabby door leading to a small storage closet. Thomas felt a shiver of anticipation, wondering what was inside. He caught glimpses of ropes and chains and other odds and ends as Minho's flashlight crisscrossed the closet. Eventually, it fell on an open box full of running shoes. Thomas almost laughed, it seemed so ordinary.

"That right there's the number one supply we get," Minho announced. "At least for us. They send new ones in the Box every so often. If we had bad shoes, we'd have feet that look like freaking Mars." He bent over and rummaged through the pile. "What size you wear?"

"Size?" Thomas thought for a second. "I …don't know." It was so odd sometimes what he could and couldn't remember. He reached down and pulled off a shoe he'd worn since coming to the Glade and took a look inside. "Eleven."

"Geez, shank, you got big feet." Minho stood up holding a pair of sleek silver ones. Thomas thought he saw Minho take another glance at his crotch. "Man, we could go _canoeing_ in these things."

"Hardy, har, har. Those are fancy." Thomas took them, ignoring Minho's jibes.

Thomas walked out of the closet to sit on the ground, eager to try them on. Minho grabbed a few more things before coming out to join him.

"Only Runners and Keepers get these," Minho said. Before Thomas could look up from tying his shoes, a plastic wristwatch dropped into his lap. It was black and very simple, its face showing only a digital display of the time.

"Put it on and never take it off. Your life might depend on it." Thomas was glad to have it. Though the sun and the shadows had seemed plenty to let him know roughly what time it was up to that point, being a Runner probably required more precision. He buckled the watch onto his wrist and then returned to fitting on his shoes.

Minho continued talking. "Here's a backpack, water bottles, lunch pack, some shorts and T-shirts, other stuff." He nudged Thomas, who looked up. Minho was holding out a couple of pairs of tightly cut underwear, made from a shiny white material. "These bad boys're what we call Runnie-undies. Keeps you, um, nice and comfy." Minho winked at him. Thomas took the underwear and other stuff.

"You guys really have this all thought out, don't you?"

"Few years runnin' your butt off every day, you figure out what you need and ask for it." He started stuffing things into his own backpack.

Thomas was surprised. "You mean, you can make requests? Supplies you want?" Why would the people who'd sent them there help so much?

"Of course we can. Just drop a note in the Box, and there she goes. Doesn't mean we always get what we want from the Creators. Sometimes we do, sometimes we don't."

"Ever asked for a map?"

Minho laughed. "Yeah, tried that one. Asked for a TV, too, but no luck. I guess those shuck-faces don't want us seeing how wonderful life is when you don't live in a freaking maze. The best that we've asked for an actually received is a couple of dirty magazines. We keep them in the homestead if you want to take a look." He winked at Thomas again. "Be sure to put it back though."

Shaking his head, he finished lacing up his shoes, then stood up and jogged around in circles, jumping up and down to test them out.

"They feel pretty good. I guess I'm ready." Minho was still crouched over his backpack on the ground; he glanced up at Thomas with a look of disgust. "You look like an idiot, prancin' around like a shuck ballerina. Good luck out there with no breakfast, no packed lunch, no weapons." Thomas had already stopped moving, felt an icy chill.

"Weapons?"

"Weapons." Minho stood and walked back to the closet. "Come here, I'll show ya." Thomas followed Minho into the small room and watched as he pulled a few boxes away from the back wall. Underneath lay a small trapdoor. Minho lifted it to reveal a set of wooden stairs leading into blackness.

"Keep 'em down in the basement so shanks like Gally can't get to them. Come on." Minho went first. The stairs creaked with every shift of weight as they descended the dozen or so steps. The cool air was refreshing, despite the dust and the strong scent of mildew. They hit a dirt floor, and Thomas couldn't see a thing until Minho turned on a single lightbulb by pulling a string.

The room was larger than Thomas had expected, at least thirty square feet. Shelves lined the walls, and there were several blocky wooden tables; everything in sight was covered with all manner of junk that gave him the creeps. Wooden poles, metal spikes, large pieces of mesh—like what covers a chicken coop—rolls of barbed wire, saws, knives, swords. One entire wall was dedicated to archery: wooden bows, arrows, spare strings. The sight of it immediately brought back the memory of Ben getting shot by Alby in the Deadheads.

"Wow," Thomas murmured, his voice a dull thump in the enclosed place. At first he was terrified that they needed so many weapons, but he was relieved to see that the vast majority of it was covered with a thick layer of dust.

"Don't use most of it," Minho said. "But ya never know. All we usually take with us is a couple of sharp knives." He nodded toward a large wooden trunk in the corner, its top open and leaning against the wall. Knives of all shapes and sizes were stacked haphazardly all the way to the top. Thomas just hoped the room was kept secret from most of the Gladers.

"Seems kind of dangerous to have all this stuff," he said. "What if Ben had gotten down here right before he went nuts and attacked me?" Minho pulled the keys out of his pocket and dangled them with a clickety-clank. "Only a few lucky toads have a set of these."

"Still …"

"Quit your bitchin' and pick a couple. Make sure they're nice and sharp. Then we'll go get breakfast and pack our lunch. I wanna spend some time in the Map Room before we head out." Thomas was pumped to hear that—he'd been curious about the squat building ever since he'd first seen a Runner go through its menacing door. He selected a short silvery dagger with a rubber grip, then one with a long black blade. His excitement waned a little. Even though he knew perfectly well what lived out there, he still didn't want to think about why he needed weapons to go into the Maze.

A half hour later, fed and packed, they stood in front of the riveted metal door of the Map Room. Thomas was itching to go inside. Dawn had burst forth in all her glory, and Gladers milled about, readying for the day. Smells of frying bacon wafted through the air—Frypan and his crew trying to keep up with dozens of starving stomachs. Minho unlocked the door, cranked the wheel-handle, spinning it until an audible click sounded from inside, then pulled. With a lurching squeal, the heavy metal slab swung open.

"After you," Minho said with a mocking bow. Thomas went in without saying anything. A cool fear, mixed with an intense curiosity, gripped him, and he had to remind himself to breathe. The dark room had a musty, wet smell, laced with a deep coppery scent so strong he could almost taste it. A distant, faded memory of sucking on pennies as a kid popped into his head.

Minho hit a switch and several rows of fluorescent lights flickered until they came on full strength, revealing the room in detail. Thomas was surprised at its simplicity and organization. About twenty feet across, the Map Room had concrete walls bare of any decoration. A wooden roundtop table stood in the exact center, eight mismatched chairs tucked in neatly around it. Neatly stacked piles of paper and pencils lay about the table's surface, one for each chair. The only other items in the room were eight trunks, just like the one containing the knives in the weapons basement. Closed, they were evenly spaced, two to a wall.

"Welcome to the Map Room," Minho said. "As happy a place as you could ever visit." Thomas was slightly disappointed—he'd been expecting something more profound. He took in a deep breath.

"Too bad it smells like an abandoned copper mine."

"I kinda like the smell." Minho pulled out two of the shabby chairs and sat in one of them. "Have a seat, I want you to get a couple of images in your head before we go out there." As Thomas sat down, Minho grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and started drawing. Thomas leaned in to get a better look.

Minho drew big box that filled almost the entire page. Then he filled it with smaller boxes until it looked exactly like an enclosed tic-tac-toe board, three rows of three squares, all the same size. He wrote the word GLADE in the middle, then numbered the outside squares from one to eight, starting in the upper left corner and going clockwise. Lastly, he drew little notches here and there.

"These are the Doors," Minho said. "You know about the ones from the Glade, but there are four more out in the Maze that lead to Sections One, Three, Five, and Seven. They stay in the same spot, but the route there changes with the wall movements every night." He finished, then slid the paper over to rest in front of Thomas. Thomas picked it up, completely fascinated that the Maze was so structured, and studied it as Minho kept talking.

"So we have the Glade, surrounded by eight Sections, each one a completely self-contained square and unsolvable in the almost four years since we began this freaking game. The only thing even approaching an exit is the Cliff, and that ain't a very good one unless you like falling to a horrible death." Minho tapped the Map. "The walls move all over the shuck place every evening—same time as our Doors close shut. At least, we think that's when, because we never really hear walls moving any other time." Thomas looked up, happy to be able to offer a piece of information.

"I didn't see anything move that night we got stuck out there."

"Those main corridors right outside the Doors don't ever change. It's just the ones a little deeper out."

"Oh." Thomas returned to the crude map, trying to visualize the Maze and see stone walls where Minho had penciled lines.

"We always have at least eight Runners, including the Keeper. One for each Section. It takes us a whole day to map out our area—hoping against hope there's an exit—then we come back and draw it up, a separate page for each day." Minho glanced over at one of the trunks. "That's why those things are shuck full of Maps." Thomas had a depressing—and scary—thought.

"Am I …replacing someone? Did somebody get killed?"

Minho shook his head. "No, we're just training you—someone'll probably want a break. Don't worry, it's been a while since a Runner was killed." For some reason that last statement worried Thomas, though he hoped it didn't show on his face.

He pointed at Section Three. "So… it takes you a whole day to run through these little squares?"

"Hilarious." Minho stood and stepped over to the trunk right behind them, knelt down, then lifted the lid and rested it against the wall. "Come here." Thomas had already gotten up.

"You can come closer. I won't bite. Unless you like that kind of thing." Minho winked again. And again, Thomas tried and failed not to blush. Why was Minho doing this to him? After he'd just told him about his problems with Newt? After he _knew_ Thomas had dreamed of him?

Thomas stepped up and leaned over Minho's shoulder to take a look. The trunk was large enough that four stacks of Maps could fit, and all four reached the top. Each of the ones Thomas could see were very similar: a rough sketch of a square maze, filling almost the whole page. In the top right corners, Section 8 was scribbled, followed by the name Hank, then the word Day, followed by a number. The latest one said it was day number 1,218. Minho continued, serious again.

"We figured out the walls were moving right at the beginning. As soon as we did, we started keeping track. We've always thought that comparing these day to day, week to week, would help us figure out a pattern. And it did—the mazes basically repeat themselves about every month. But we've yet to see an exit open up that will lead us out of the square. Never been an exit."

"It's been over three years," Thomas said. "Haven't you gotten desperate enough to stay out there overnight, see if maybe something opens while the walls are moving?" Minho looked up at him, a flash of anger in his eyes.

"That's kind of insulting, dude. Seriously."

"What?" Thomas was shocked—he hadn't meant it that way.

"We've been bustin' our asses for almost four years, and all you can ask is why we're too sissy to stay out there all night? A few of us tried it in the very beginning—all of them wound up dead. You wanna spend another night out there? Like your chances of surviving again, do ya?"

Thomas's face reddened in shame. "No. Sorry." He suddenly felt like a piece of klunk. And he certainly agreed—he'd much rather come home safe and sound to the Glade every night than ensure another battle with the Grievers. He shuddered at the thought.

"Yeah, well." Minho returned his gaze to the Maps in the trunk, much to Thomas's relief. "Life in the Glade might not be sweet livin', but at least it's safe. Plenty of food, protection from the Grievers. There's no way we can ask the Runners to risk staying out there—no way. Least not yet. Not until something about these patterns gives a clue that an exit might open up, even temporarily."

"Are you close? Anything developing?"

Minho shrugged. "I don't know. It's kind of depressing, but we don't know what else to do. Can't take a chance that one day, in one spot, somewhere, an exit might appear. We can't give up. Ever."

Thomas nodded, relieved at the attitude. As bad as things were, giving up would only make them worse. Minho pulled several sheets from the trunk, the Maps from the last few days. As he flipped through them, he explained, "We compare day to day, week to week, month to month, just like I was saying. Each Runner is in charge of the Map for his own Section. If I gotta be honest, we haven't figured out jack yet. Even more honest—we don't know what we're looking for. Really sucks, dude. Really fucking sucks."

"But we can't give up." Thomas said it in a matter-of-fact tone, as a resigned repeat of what Minho had said a moment earlier. He'd said "we" without even thinking about it, and realized he was truly part of the Glade now.

"Right on, bro. We can't give up." Minho carefully returned the papers and closed the trunk, then stood. "Well, we gotta bust it fast since we took time in here—you'll just be following me around your first few days. Ready?" Thomas felt a wire of nervousness tighten inside him, pinching his gut. It was actually here—they were going for real now, no more talking and thinking about it.

"Um …yeah."

"No 'ums' around here. Are you _ready?_ "

Thomas looked at Minho, matched his suddenly hard gaze. "I'm ready."

"Then let's run."


	32. 32 (M)

The exited west into Section Eight and made their way down several corridors, Thomas right beside Minho as he turned left and right without ever appearing to think about it, running the entire time. Thomas kept up as best he could, having to sprint every once in a while to catch back up.

After a while, Minho broke their long trek of silence. "So tell me about this dream," he said casually, with that everpresent smirk of his, sounding as if he hadn't been running for the past twenty minute. as they made it to a rectangular cut in a long wall to the north that looked like a doorway without a door. Minho ran straight through it without stopping.

"I'm not going to talk to you about that." Thomas noticed that his breaths had begun to get heavy. He really hoped it was only jitters.

"Why?" Minho smiled.

"Do you get amusement from seeing me blush?" Thomas answered, avoiding the question.

"Yes actually," Minho admitted. "I think it looks cute on you. We just passed into Section One. Like I said, this is one of the passages that always in the same spot, but the pathway to get here might be a little different because of the shifting walls."

They ran for a short while until they reached a four-way intersection with three possible choices. Minho turned right with no hesitation. As he did so, he pulled one of his knives from his pocket, and without pausing his run, cut a big piece of vine from the wall, throwing it into the turn behind him.

"Bread crumbs?" Thomas asked, the old fairy tale popping into his mind. Such odd glimpses of his mysterious past were irritating. They always surprised him.

"Bread crumbs," Minho replied, his voice finally revealing a hint of strain.

On and on they ran, making left turns sometimes right. Minho had let Thomas cut some of the vines. He had to sprint an catch up, nowhere near as good as Minho. Until Minho slowed, and finally came to a complete stop. "Break time," he huffed, plopping down against the wall. He swung off his backpack and pulled out some water and an apple.

Thomas didn't have to be convinced to follow along. He plopped down beside him and began to guzzle his water, relishing in the cool moisture it gave his throat.

"Whoa! Slow down, shank. You're gonna make yourself sick! Besides. You'll want to save some for later."

Thomas listened, swapping the water out for one of his apple. Sitting there, munching in silence, Thomas could only think about the last time he'd been sitting in the Maze with Minho. _Are you going to fuck me or not?!_ And Thomas was blushing again, thinking about how close he'd been to doing just that.

"Awe. You're blushing again. What are you thinking about?" _There he is again with adorable smirk,_ Thomas thought. _Wait. No, it's not adorable. It's irritating._

"S'nothing," Thomas mumbled, blushing harder.

"Are you thinking about the last time we were out here?" Minho voice was almost a whisper. "Because I was. I was also remembering how close you were to caving." He stuck his leg over and rubbed Thomas's with his own. "I think you _wanted_ to fuck me." Thomas could only blush harder. "I think you still you do." Minho voice _was_ a whisper now unnecessarily, and his smirk was gone, replaced by the most serious expression Thomas had ever seen on him.

"Here I am," Minho continued. "You have me all alone. No Grievers to stop us this time." Thomas could feel himself getting excited. "I can _see_ that that you want it." Minho leaned forward slowly, hand outstretched, and cupped Thomas's crotch. He began to stroke it. "No one's here to see us," he whispered. "I'm dying to know how you feel inside me." The last sentence was spoke n so softly, that if Minho weren't so close, Thomas wouldn't have heard him.

Slowly, Minho kissed Thomas again, his kiss was more sensual this time. His kisses were soft yet still firm. Minho crawled over and straddled Thomas's lap. This was so different than anything Thomas had ever experienced. Everything Minho did was strong and firm yet somehow still soft and sensual. It was disorienting.

Thomas let Minho unbutton his pants, and pull down his underwear. His stiff member popped out like a jack in the box.

"Wow," Minho smiled, grabbing it in that soft yet firm way of his. Thomas sighed closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. "You do have some pretty big feet."

Thomas had to admit that Minho was right. There _was_ no one there to see them.

Thomas took him, sitting there on the ground. Minho had pulled his pants down his thighs again and sat backwards on Thomas's dick, riding him, pushing down, back and forward. Minho took the thick appendage deep, to the hilt, pumping himself nd biting his lip while he rode Thomas. Being inside Minho was better than anything Thomas had ever imagined. Minho rocked and stroked and pushed until he moaned and released himself all over his hand, pulling Thomas's orgasm out where it filled Minho's ass.

ooo

Thomas ran right behind Minho for two more hours after that. Honestly he didn't know how the boy could still _walk_ , let alone run but he ran along just fine, despite being fill to the brim, because Thomas never saw him get it out.

Finally Minho stopped once more and they sat on the ground, leaning against the soft ivy. Thomas took a swig of water, looking up at the ivy colored wall opposite them and when he caught a flash of silver and red.

"What's the deal with those beetle blades?" he asked. "They seem to be everywhere." Then Thomas remembered what he'd seen the last time he was in the Maze. So much had happened between now and then that he'd forgotten to ask about it. "And why do they have the word wicked on their backs."

"Never been able to catch one." Minho finished up his meal and put his lunch box away. "And we've no idea what that word means—probably just something to scare us. We're pretty sure that they're—"

But before Minho could finish, Thomas was on his feet and across the corridor. "What this?" He asked swiping away some vine to reveal a dull glimmer of gray that had just caught his eye.

"Oh, yeah that."

Thomas stared at the square of metal riveted to the wall head high. Stamped across it in big capital letters were the words:

 _World in Catastrophe:_

 _Killzone Experiment Department_

And because he'd just been thinking about it, his brain instantly made the connection.

"Those are all over the place," Minho said, coming over to look at it with Thomas. "I think they're la—"

"Wicked," Thomas interrupted him. Saying the word seemed to catch Minho up to Thomas's thinking. Hit eyes lit up as he stared at the plaque.

"Wicked!" Minho exclaimed. "World In Catastrophe Killzone Experiment Department!"

"Wicked," Thomas repeated, excitedly. "The beetle blades and this maze have something in common."

"Come on! We have to—" But Minho's words were cut off as the sky abruptly changed to a dull slab of gray. _Very_ abruptly. Brilliant blue. Grey. All excitement from their recent discovery vanished just as abruptly.

"The fuck?" Minho's face scrunched in confusion as he looked at the dull sky. Thomas gawked toward the heavens as well. There was no blue, no black, no nothing. The sky, every last inch of it, was slate gray. Colorless and dead. Not cloudy. Just gray. All of the shadows in the Maze vanished. The sun had just disappeared.


	33. 33

"What the fuck?" Minho repeated. Thomas could see his confusion beginning to change to fear.

"Let's look at this rationally. The sun obviously did not disappear—that's not possible. I know that's what it seems like, but we are far too rational and intelligent to conclude such a thing. No, there has to be a scientifically acceptable reason for what we're witnessing. And whatever it is, it means one thing: the fact that we can longer see the sun probably means we could never see it in the first place. A sun can't just... _disappear._ " The realization hit Thomas like a ton of brick. "I don't know how. It means this place is _massive_. But this entire maze is inside of a building."

" _What?_ " Minho looked at him like he'd said the most ridiculous thing. Thomas rambled his brain to find the proper explanation. To make Minho see what he did.

"Our sky had to have been—and still is—fabricated. Artificial. The sun that's been here for almost four years was not the sun at all. Somehow, it was fake. Everything about this place is fake. I don't know what that means, or how it was possible, but it's the only explanation."

Minho seemed to be wrapping his head around Thomas's words. "Dude. This place is too big. _Huge_. We _can't_ be inside of a building."

"I know it sounds crazy," Thomas insisted, "but the _sun can't just disappear._ It just _can't_. How else can they hide the real sun? And why else does it never rain?"

Minho looked up again. "It kind of does look like big gray ceiling—close enough you could almost touch it. It looks like the ceiling of a massive room." Minho looked a Thomas in complete awe. "Dude I think you're right. We need to get back to the Glade." And Minho turned running.

ooo

They saw the Griever before they'd even made their fourth turn. Minho was a few feet ahead of Thomas. He'd just rounded a corner to the right when he slammed to a stop, his feet almost skidding out from under him. He jumped back and grabbed Thomas by the shirt, pushing him against the wall.

"Shh,"Minho whispered. "Shit just keeps getting better and better. There's a freaking Griever up there." Thomas widened his eyes in question, felt his heart pick up the pace, even though it had already been pumping hard and steady. Minho simply nodded, then put his finger to his lips. He let go of Thomas's shirt and took a step back, then crept up to the corner around which he'd seen the Griever. Very slowly, he leaned forward to take a peek. Thomas wanted to scream at him to be careful. Minho's head jerked back and he turned to face Thomas. His voice was still a whisper.

"It's just sitting up there—almost like that dead one we saw."

"What do we do?" Thomas asked, as quietly as possible. He tried to ignore the panic flaring inside him. "Is it coming toward us?"

"No, idiot—I just told you it was sitting there."

"Well?" Thomas raised his hands to his sides in frustration. "What do we do?" Standing so close to a Griever seemed like a really bad idea. Minho paused a few seconds, thinking before he spoke.

"We have to go that way to get back to the Glade. It's the fastest way. Let's just watch it awhile—if it comes after us, we'll take the long way around to the south door." He took another peek, then quickly looked over his shoulder. "Crap—it's gone! Come on!" Minho didn't wait for a response, didn't see the look of horror Thomas had just felt widen his own eyes. Minho took off running in the direction where he'd seen the Griever. Though his instincts told him not to, Thomas followed.

He sprinted down the long corridor after Minho, turned left, then right. At every turn, they slowed so the Keeper could look around the corner first. Each time he whispered back to Thomas that he'd seen the tail end of the Griever disappearing around the next turn. This went on for ten minutes, until they came to the long hallway that ended at the Cliff, where beyond lay nothing but the lifeless sky. The Griever was charging toward that sky. Minho stopped so abruptly Thomas almost ran him over. Then Thomas stared in shock as up ahead the Griever dug in with its spikes and spun forward right up to the Cliff's edge, then off, into the gray abyss. The creature disappeared from sight, a shadow swallowed by more shadow.

"That settles it," Minho said. Thomas stood next to him on the edge of the Cliff, staring at the gray nothingness beyond. There was no sign of anything, to the left, right, down, up, or ahead, for as far as he could see. Nothing but a wall of blankness.

"Settles what?" Thomas asked.

"We've seen this three times now. Something's up."

"Yeah." Thomas knew what he meant, but waited for Minho's explanation anyway.

"That dead Griever I found—it ran this way, and we never saw it come back or go deeper into the Maze. Then those suckers we tricked into jumping past us."

"Tricked?" Thomas said. "Maybe not such a trick."

Minho looked over at him, contemplative. "Hmm. Anyway, then this." He pointed out at the abyss. "Not much doubt anymore—somehow the Grievers can leave the Maze this way. Looks like magic, but so does the sun disappearing."

"If they can leave this way," Thomas added, continuing Minho's line of reasoning, "so can we." A thrill of excitement shot through him.

Minho laughed. "Wanna hang out with the Grievers, have a sandwich, maybe?" Thomas felt his hopes drop.

"Got any better ideas?"

"One thing at a time, Greenie. Let's get some rocks and test this place out. There has to be some kind of hidden exit." Thomas helped Minho as they scrabbled around the corners and crannies of the Maze, picking up as many loose stones as possible. They got more by thumbing cracks in the wall, spilling broken chunks onto the ground.

When they finally had a sizable pile, they hauled it over right next to the edge and took a seat, feet dangling over the side. Thomas looked down and saw nothing but a gray descent. Minho pulled out his pad and pencil, placed them on the ground next to him.

"All right, we gotta take good notes. And memorize it in that shuck head of yours, too. If there's some kind of optical illusion hiding an exit from this place, I don't wanna be the one who screws up when the first shank tries to jump into it."

"That shank oughtta be the Keeper of the Runners," Thomas said, trying to make a joke to hide his fear. Being this close to a place where Grievers might come out at any second was making him sweat. "We could die."

"Aren't you glad we just had sex first?" Minho winked at him. "Okay, let's take turns tossing them, zigzagging back and forth out there. If there's some kind of magical exit, hopefully it'll work with rocks, too—make them disappear." Thomas took a rock and carefully threw it to their left, just in front of where the left wall of the corridor leading to the Cliff met the edge.

The jagged piece of stone fell. And fell. Then disappeared into the gray emptiness. Minho went next. He tossed his rock just a foot or so farther out than Thomas had. It also fell far below. Thomas threw another one, another foot out. Then Minho. Each rock fell to the depths. Thomas kept following Minho's orders—they continued until they'd marked a line reaching at least a dozen feet from the Cliff, then moved their target pattern a foot to the right and started coming back toward the Maze. All the rocks fell. Another line out, another line back. All the rocks fell. They threw enough rocks to cover the entire left half of the area in front of them, covering the distance anyone—or anything—could possibly jump.

Thomas's discouragement grew with every toss, until it turned into a heavy mass of blah. He couldn't help chiding himself—it'd been a stupid idea. Then Minho's next rock disappeared. It was the strangest, most _incredible_ thing Thomas had ever seen. Minho had thrown a large chunk, a piece that had fallen from one of the cracks in the wall. Thomas had watched, deeply concentrating on each and every rock. This one left Minho's hand, sailed forward, almost in the exact center of the Cliff line, started its descent to the unseen ground far below. Then it vanished, as if it had fallen through a plane of water or mist. One second there, falling. Next second gone. Thomas couldn't speak.

"We've thrown stuff off the Cliff before," Minho said. "How could we have ever missed that? I never saw anything disappear. _Never_." Thomas coughed; his throat felt raw.

"Do it again—maybe we blinked weird or something." Minho did, throwing it at the same spot. And once again, it winked out of existence. "Maybe you weren't looking carefully other times you threw stuff over," Thomas said. "I mean, it should be impossible—sometimes you don't look very hard for things you don't believe will or can happen." They threw the rest of the rocks, aiming at the original spot and every inch around it. To Thomas's surprise, the spot in which the rocks disappeared proved only to be a few feet square.

"No wonder we missed it," Minho said, furiously writing down notes and dimensions, his best attempt at a diagram. "It's really small."

"The Grievers must barely fit through that thing." Thomas kept his eyes riveted to the area of the invisible floating square, trying to burn the distance and location in his mind, remember exactly where it was.

"And when they come out, they must balance on the rim of the hole and jump over the empty space to the Cliff edge—it's not that far. If I could jump it, I'm sure it's easy for them." Minho finished drawing, then looked up at the special spot. "How's this possible, dude? What're we looking at?"

"Like you said, it's not magic. Must be something like our sky turning gray. Some kind of optical illusion or hologram, hiding a doorway. This place is all jacked up." And, Thomas admitted to himself, kind of cool. His mind craved to know what kind of technology could be behind it all.

"Yeah, jacked up is right. Come on." Minho got up with a grunt and put on his backpack. "We need to go tell Newt and Alby about this."

 _Newt_. Thomas felt horrible. This was the first time he'd even _thought_ of him. Thomas had just had his dick shoved so far up Minho's ass he was surprised the tightess didn't squeeze it off. Thomas had sex with Minho. Thomas had cheated on Newt.

ooo

A somber mood rested over the Glade, an easy thing to happen when all is gray. The dim light hadn't changed a bit since they'd woken up that morning, and Thomas wondered if anything would change at "sunset" either. Minho headed straight for the Map Room as they came through the West Door. Thomas was surprised. He thought it was the last thing they should do.

"Aren't you dying to tell Newt and Alby about the Griever Hole?"

"Hey, we're still Runners," Minho said, "and we still have a job." Thomas followed him to the steel door of the big concrete block and Minho turned to give him a wan smile. "But yeah, we'll do it quick so we can talk to them."

There were already other Runners milling about the room, drawing up their Maps when they entered. No one said a word, as if all speculation on the new sky had been exhausted. The hopelessness in the room made Thomas feel as if he were walking through mud-thick water. He knew he should also be exhausted, but he was too excited to feel it—he couldn't wait to see Newt's and Alby's reactions to the news about the Cliff.

He sat down at the table and drew up the day's Map based on his memory and notes, Minho looking over his shoulder the whole time, giving pointers. "I think that hall was actually cut off here, not there," and "Watch your proportions," and "Draw straighter, you shank." He was annoying but helpful, and fifteen minutes after entering the room, Thomas examined his finished product. Pride washed through him—it was just as good as any other Map he'd seen.

"Not bad," Minho said. "For a Greenie, anyway." Minho got up and walked over to the Section One trunk and opened it. Thomas knelt down in front of it and took out the Map from the day before and held it up side by side with the one he'd just drawn.

"What am I looking for?" he asked.

"Patterns. But looking at two days' worth isn't gonna tell you jack. You really need to study several weeks, look for patterns, anything. I know there's something there, something that'll help us. Just can't find it yet. Like I said, it sucks."

Thomas had an itch in the back of his mind, the same one he'd felt the very first time in this room. The Maze walls, moving. Patterns. All those straight lines—were they suggesting an entirely different kind of map? Pointing to something? He had such a heavy feeling that he was missing an obvious hint or clue. Minho tapped him on the shoulder.

"You can always come back and study your ass off after dinner, after we talk to Newt and Alby. Come on." Thomas put the papers in the trunk and closed it, hating the twinge of unease he felt. It was like a prick in his side. Walls moving, straight lines, patterns …There had to be an answer.

"Okay, let's go." They'd just stepped outside the Map Room, the heavy door clanging shut behind them, when Newt and Alby walked up, neither one of them looking very happy. Thomas's excitement immediately turned to worry. He couldn't even look at Newt. Minho acted as if nothing had transpired between the two of them, like Thomas's dick hadn't just been up his ass a few hours ago, like the come wasn't still inside him.

"Hey," Minho said. "We were just—"

"Get on with it," Alby interrupted. "Ain't got time to waste. Find anything? Anything?"

Minho actually recoiled at the harsh rebuke, but his face seemed more confused to Thomas than hurt or angry. "Nice to see you, too. Yeah, we did find something, actually."

Oddly, Alby almost looked disappointed. "Cuz this whole shuck place is fallin' to pieces." He shot Thomas a nasty glare as if it were all his fault. _Not this again_ Thomas thought, feeling his own anger light up. They'd been working hard all day and _this_ was their thanks?

"What do you mean?" Minho asked. "What else happened?" Newt glanced at Thomas, clearly noticing how Thomas averted his gaze. Then, appearing to have chosen to ignore it for the time being, answered Minho, nodding toward the Box as he did so.

"Bloody supplies didn't come today. Come every week for two years, same time, same day. But not today."

All four of them looked over at the steel doors attached to the ground. To Thomas, there seemed to be a shadow hovering over it darker than the gray air surrounding everything else.

"Oh, we're fucked for good now," Minho whispered, his reaction alerting Thomas to how grave the situation really was.

"No sun for the plants," Newt said, "no supplies from the bloody Box—yeah, I'd say we're fucked, all right." Alby had folded his arms, still glaring at the Box as if trying to open the doors with his mind. Thomas hoped their leader didn't bring up what he'd seen in the Changing—or anything related to Thomas, for that matter. Especially now.

"Yeah, anyway," Minho continued. "We found something weird." Thomas waited, hoping that Newt or Alby would have a positive reaction to the news, maybe even have further information to shed light on the mystery. Newt raised his eyebrows.

"What?" Minho took a full three minutes to explain, starting with the Griever they followed and ending with the results of their rock-throwing experiment. "Must lead to where the… ya know… Grievers live," he said when finished.

"The Griever Hole," Thomas added.

"Gotta bloody see that for myself," Newt said. Then murmured, "Hard to believe." Thomas still couldn't look at him.

"I don't know what we can do," Minho said. "Maybe we could build something to block off that corridor."

"No way," Newt said. "Shuck things can climb the bloody walls, remember? Nothing we could build would keep them out." But a commotion outside the Homestead shifted their attention away from the conversation. A group of Gladers stood at the front door of the house, shouting to be heard over each other. Ben and Chuck were in the group, and when they saw Thomas and the others, they ran over. Thomas could only wonder what crazy thing had happened now.

"What's going on?" Newt asked, still eyeing Thomas suspiciously. Thomas decided that he needed to get his act together and be more like Minho. He would have to brave up and tell Newt about his indiscretion sooner or later but until then, he didn't need Newt suspicious.

"She awake!" Chuck called out. "The girl's awake!"

Thomas's insides twisted. Things just kept getting worse.


	34. 34

Thomas didn't want to see her. He didn't want to see anybody. He wanted to take Newt off, apologize and hope for forgiveness. But he hadn't built of the courage for that yet. So with everyone's thought's on the stranger waking from her coma, it was easy for Thomas to slip off. He skirted the edge of the forest, then breaking into a run, headed for his place of seclusion behind the Deadheads.

He crouched in the corner, nestled in the ivy, and threw his blanket over himself, head an all. There was so much going on, so rattling through his brain. They'd discovered that they were somehow in a giant building, that the beetle blades and this maze had something to do with each other. _World In Catastrophe_ , the words tumbled across Thomas's brain. _Killzone._ What did it all mean?

"Forgetting about you was the worst part."

The girl was in his head again. Thomas squeezed his hands to his ears in a futile attempt to drown her out.

"Tom, do you really not remember me?" He snatched the sheet off himself, preparing to run away from the voice in vain again, but froze when he found the girl, alive and well, standing before him. Black hair framed fair skin and almost flaming blue eyes.

Thomas jumped to his feet. "Get away from me!" he cried, a little louder than he'd intended. But he wanted nothing to do with this strange girl that only made things worse for him here. She wouldn't get out of his head, and now here she was invading his space.

 _Tom, what wrong?_ The girl asked, her face twisted in concern. But no. Her lips hadn't moved.

"And stay out of my head!" Thomas screamed at her. He snatched up his blanket and slowly backed away from her. He would have to find somewhere else to sleep. But she had found him here, maybe she could find him anywhere.

 _Tom?_

"I said _stay out!_ And don't call me that! My name is Thomas!" He turned and bolted. He ran. How had she found him? What? Was their mental connection like a GPS or something? When did she get out of the Homestead? How did she escape? Surely they hadn't let her walk away.

Thomas looked back to check for pursuit.

 _The maze is a code._ Eugh! He shoved his hands to his ears again, the blanket slipped from his hand in his retreat, but he didn't care. He just kept running, dodging trees. _The maps are important, Tom._ Thomas verbally screamed at his inability to relieve himself of her. He was just breaking out into the Glade when he ran slap into Alby, _again_ , knocking himself down onto his ass.

"Where's the girl?" Alby asked, looking down at Thomas furiously. Thomas pointed into the forest behind him. Alby looked at Newt who Thomas had only just saw was with him. Newt nodded and dashed in to the Deadheads.

"I'm sick of this," Alby snapped, looking back down at Thomas. "I wanna know who you are, who this shank girl is, and how you know each other." Thomas scrawled to his feet. "She came _straight_ to you after waking up!"

Anger surged inside of Thomas. "Fine! I know her! She knows me! Or at least we used to!" Thomas raised his arms at his sides dropped them. "That doesn't mean anything! But I don't remember her!" At that moment, Newt came back out of the forest with a struggling girl in tow.

"—walk on my own!" She snatched her arm away Newt, looking furious yet smug with triumph. But it was obvious Newt had simply let her go. Thomas stared her in her eyes.

"I don't even want anything to _do_ with her," Thomas finished, speaking to Alby but not taking his eyes off the girl. Thomas turned his fury toward the girl instead. He hated her. Almost as much as he hated Gally. Maybe even more.

Alby looked at her. "What did you do?"

This question baffled Thomas. He looked back to Alby, then at Teresa to see if she knew what he was talking about, but she didn't respond.

"What did you do?! First the sky! Now this!"

"I triggered something," she said calmly, still staring at Thomas, as if she were heartbroken. "I swear I didn't do it on purpose. The Ending. I don't know what it means."

"What's wrong?" Thomas asked Alby, still not wanting to talk to Newt directly just yet. He was afraid his voice would crack or something, but sure that he was missing something. Newt spoke, answering the question anyway. He looked directly into Thomas's eyes and Thomas forced himself to look back.

"The Door. They didn't close."

Thomas was speechless. Everything would be different now, no sun no supplies, no protection from the Grievers. _Everything is going to change._ The words tumbled through Thomas's brain.

"This is your fault," he whispered, staring at the girl. "You said everything was going to change and it has!"

"It is! It is my fault and I'm sorry! I _swear_ I didn't mean to do anything!" The girl was almost crying now. "Tom? Why are treating me like this?" She reached out to him, and he jerked away.

"You're coming with me," Alby said grabbing the girl's arm. _Wait, what?_ Thomas didn't like the girl, but he didn't want her hurt or anything.

"What are you going to do to her?" Thomas asked.

"She's going in the Slammer. Right now." Teresa looked over at Thomas, hopefully, as if maybe he would defend her, but Thomas just stood with Newt, watching Alby take the girl away. Thomas was happy to see her go.

"Tommy, love? What's going on?" Newt asked, concern in his tone.

Thomas startled and looked around, nervous to find himself alone with Newt. "Umm," Thomas coughed. "What do you mean?" Thomas tried and failed to not avoid Newt's eyes.

"I mean _that_ ," Newt said. "You'll barely look at me." Thomas frowned, almost painfully This was it. He needed to tell Newt now. "Tommy, love, talk to me." Newt leaned in and kissed him. Thomas simply accepted the kiss, too filled with guilt to return it. Newt eyes widened. "Thomas what is wrong?" His tone was urgent now. Then it suddenly got very soft, almost as if _he_ were the one a fault. "Are you still upset about last night? I can give you some space if you want."

No. Newt thought it was him. He thought _he_ had done something wrong. Thomas couldn't let him continue thinking that. Bracing his shoulders and preparing for the worst, Thomas spoke, his voice coming out much softer than he had intended.

"I had sex with Minho."

Newt's face was blank. It was as if Thomas had broken him. Then he turned and walked away.

"Wait," Thomas called after him, devastated. "Aren't we gonna talk about it?"

"No," Newt said, not even bothering to stop and look back at Thomas. "There's too much going on for me to deal with this right now."

And he left Thomas standing next to the Deadheads with a shattering heart.

ooo

The next few hours were an erruption of mass confusion.

Though there had been no discernible change in the light since the sun and blue sky had disappeared, it still felt like a darkness had spread over the Glade. Ben and the rest of the buliders—without their leader, Gally, who was still missing—were ordered to put up barricades at each open Door. They obeyed, although Thomas knew there wasn't enough time nor materials to do much good. If almost seemed to him as if the Keepers wanted people to stay busy, wanted to delay the impending panic attacks.

It had been decided that everyone would sleep in the Homestead tonight, and that they'd kill the lights except for emergencies. Frypan's and the Cook's task was to gather up all the nonperishables and store them in the Homestead, in case everyone wound up trapped there. Alby had made it clear that they could take no chances: the Homestead would be their fortress and would defend it at all cost. Minho had Thomas and the other Runners carry weapons from the basement to the main building. After everyone had finished shifting, building, and moving stuff, attempting to stop the inevitable, Newt shood everyone into the Homestead like errant chickens.

Most of them slept outside in normal times, so packing all those bodies into the small building was a tight fit. The Keepers had organized and distrubuted the Gladers throughout the rooms, along with blankets and pillows. Despite the number of people, and chaos of such change, a disturbing silence hung over the place, as if no one wanted to draw attention to himself.

When everyone was settled, Thomas found himself upstairs with Alby, Minho. And Newt.

At first Thomas was a little uncomfortable being in the same room with Newt and the reason for the rift in their relationship. But Minho was still acting as if nothing had happened between him and Thomas out in the Maze and Newt and begun to do the same, as if the past few days had meant nothing him, as if he an Thomas were only friends. Thomas was so hurt and confused. But since now was not the time, nor the place for that conversation, he'd decided to play along. He would pretend, just like they did, that the odd quartet in the room didn't exist.

Thomas glanced over at Alby to swee how he was handling this. Surely Newt had told him what was going on. Newt told him everything, that was the root of their problem. Alby's was staring at the floor, seemingly lost in his own gloomy thoughts. His handsome face still wore the the long, weary look of depression, his eyes sunken and hollow. The Changing had been aptly named, considering what it had done to him.

"I've been thinking," Minho said, breaking the silence. "Tomorrow morning, first thing, you guys can assign teams to study the Maps full-time while the Runners go. We'll pack our stuff shuck-full so stay out there for a couple of days."

This snapped Alby's head up. "Days? What do you mean _days?"_

"I mean _days_. With open Doors and no sunset, there's no point in coming back here. It's time stay out there and see in anything opens up while the walls are moving. _If_ they still move."

"No," Alby disagreed vehemently. "We can't ask people to go out there and _die!_ Who'd volunteer for that?"

"Me," Minho responded, blandly. "And Thomas."

Everyone looked at Thomas. He still found it so _weird_ that everyone was acting like _nothing was going on between them._ But he simply nodded in agreement with Minho. Exploring the Maze was something he'd wanted to do since he first learned about it.

"I will if I have to," Newt said, surprising Thomas; though he'd never talk about it, the older boy's limp was a constant reminder that something horrible had happened to him out in the Maze. "And I'm sure all the Runners'll do it."

"With your bum leg?" Alby asked, a harsh laugh escaping his lips.

Newt frowned, looked at the ground. "Well, I don't feel good askin' Gladers to do something if I'm not bloody willing to do it myself."

Alby scooted back on the bed and propped his feet up. "Whatever. Do what you want."

"Do what I want?" Newt asked, standing up. "What's _wrong_ with you? Are you tellin' me we have a choice? Should we just sit around on our butts and wait to be snuffed by the Grievers?"

Thomas wanted to stand up and cheer, sure that Alby would finally snap out of his doldrums.

But their leader didn't look in the least bit reprimanded or remorseful. "Well, it sounds better than running to them."

Newt sat back down. "Alby. You gotta start talkin' reason."

As much as he hated to admit it, Thomas knew they needed Alby if they were going to accomplish anything. The Gladers looked up to him.

Alby finally took a deep breath, then looked at each of them in turn. "You guys know I'm all screwed up. Seriously, I'm … sorry. I shouldn't be the stupid leader anymore."

Thomas held his breath. He couldn't believe Alby had just said that.

"What?" Newt started, as if consoling a small child. "Alby you can't _mean_ that."

"No..." Alby shook his, as if trying to clear it, his face showing humility, surrender. "That's not what I meant. I ain't saying we should switch or anything. I'm just saying… I think." Alby seemed to be struggling for words. "I think I need to let you guys make the decisions. I don't trust myself, anymore. So… I'll do whatever."

Thomas could see that both Minho and Newt were as surprised as he was.

"Uh… okay," Newt said slowly. As if he was unsure. "We'll make it work, I promise. You'll see."

"Yeah," Alby muttered. After a long pause, he spoke up, a hint of odd excitement in his voice. "Hey, tell you what. Put me in charge of the Maps. I'll work every Glader to the bone studying those things."

"Works for me," Minho said. Thomas wanted to agree, but didn't know if it was his place.

Alby put his feet back on the floor, sat up straighter. "Ya know, it was really stupid for us to sleep in here tonight. We should've been out in the Map Room, working."

Thomas thought that was the smartest thing he'd heard Alby say in a long time.

Minho shrugged. "Probably right."

"Well … I'll go," Alby said with a confident nod. "Right now."

Newt shook his head. "Forget that, Alby. Already heard the bloody Grievers moaning out there. We can wait till the wake-up."

Alby leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Hey, you shucks are the ones giving me all the pep talks. Don't start whining when I actually listen. If I'm gonna do this, I gotta do it, be the old me. I need something to dive into."

Relief flooded Thomas. He'd grown sick of all the tention.

Alby stood up. "Seriously, I need this." He moved toward the door of the room as if he really meant to leave.

"You _cannot_ be serious," Newt said. "You can't go out there now!"

"I'm going, and that's that." Alby took his ring of keys from his pocket and rattled them mockingly—Thomas couldn't believe the sudden bravery. "See you shucks in the morning."

And then he walked out.

ooo

It was strange to know that the night grew later, that darkness should've swallowed the world around them, but to see only the pale gray light outside. It made Thomas feel off-kilter, as if the urge to sleep that grew steadily with every passing minute were somehow unnatural. Time slowed to an agonizing crawl; he felt as if the next day might never come.

The other Gladers settled themselves, turning in with their pillows and blankets for the impossible task of sleeping. No one said much, the mood somber and grim. All you could hear were quiet shuffles and whispers.

Thomas tried hard to force himself to sleep, knowing it would make the time pass faster, but after two hours he'd still had no luck. He lay on the floor in one of the upper rooms, on top of a thick blanket, several other Gladers crammed in there with him, almost body to body. The bed had gone to Newt.

Chuck had ended up in another room, and for some reason Thomas pictured him huddled in a dark corner, crying, squeezing his blankets to his chest like a teddy bear. But he convinced himself that _surly_ Ben was with him. The image of the two of them to together made Thomas smile.

Almost every person had a flashlight by their side in case of emergency. Otherwise, Newt had ordered all lights extinguished despite the pale, deathly glow of their new sky—no sense attracting any more attention than necessary. Anything that could be done on such short notice to prepare for a Griever attack had been done: windows boarded up, furniture moved in front of doors, knives handed out as weapons …

But none of that made Thomas feel safe. The distant wails of the Grievers grew closer as the night stretched on, every minute seeming to last longer than the one before it.

Another hour passed. Then another. Sleep finally came, but in miserable fits. Thomas guessed it was about two in the morning when he turned from his back to his stomach for the millionth time that night. He put his hands under his chin and stared at the foot of the bed, almost a shadow in the dim light.

Then everything changed.

A mechanized surge of machinery sounded from outside, followed by the familiar rolling clicks of a Griever on the stony ground, as if someone had scattered a handful of nails. Thomas shot to his feet, as did most of the others.

But Newt was up before anyone, waving his arms, then shushing the room by putting a finger to his lips. Favoring his bad leg, he tiptoed toward the lone window in the room, which was covered by three hastily nailed boards. Large cracks allowed for plenty of space to peek outside. Carefully, Newt leaned in to take a look, and Thomas crept over to join him. Thomas wanted to take Newt's hand but he didn't know what their relationship was anymore. The two of them desperately needed to talk.

Now he felt a little uncomfortable being this close to the boy, but simply aknowleged Thomas with a sidways glance and continued peeping out the window. Thomas crouched below him against the lowest of the wooden boards, pressing his eye against a crack—it was terrifying being so close to the wall. But all he saw was the open Glade; he didn't have enough space to look up or down or to the side, just straight ahead. After a minute or so, he gave up and turned to sit with his back against the wall. Newt walked over and sat back down on the bed.

 _Argh!_ Thomas mentally screamed. He hated this! _Come sit with me! Hold me!_ But his face didn't portray his emotions. He simply sat there in silence.

A few minutes passed, various Griever sounds penetrating the walls every ten to twenty seconds. The squeal of small engines followed by a grinding spin of metal. The clicking of spikes against the hard stone. Things snapping and opening and snapping. Thomas winced in fear every time he heard something.

Sounded like three or four of them were just outside. At least.

He heard the twisted animal-machines come closer, so close, waiting on the stone blocks below. All hums and metallic clatter.

Thomas's mouth dried up—he'd seen them face to face, remembered it all too well; he had to remind himself to breathe. The others in the room were still; no one made a sound. Fear seemed to hover in the air like a blizzard of black snow.

One of the Grievers sounded like it was moving toward the house. Then the clicking of its spikes against the stone suddenly turned into a deeper, hollower sound. Thomas could picture it all: the creature's metal spikes digging into the wooden sides of the Homestead, the massive creature rolling its body, climbing up toward their room, defying gravity with its strength. Thomas heard the Grievers' spikes shred the wood siding in their path as they tore out and rotated around to take hold once again. The whole building shuddered.

The crunching and groaning and snapping of the wood became the only sounds in the world to Thomas, horrifying. They grew louder, closer—the other boys had shuffled across the room and as far away from the window as possible. Thomas finally followed suit, Newt right beside him; everyone huddled against the far wall, staring at the window.

Just when it grew unbearable—just as Thomas realized the Griever was right outside the window—everything fell silent. Thomas could almost hear his own heart beating.

Lights flickered out there, casting odd beams through the cracks between the wooden boards. Then a thin shadow interrupted the light, moving back and forth. Thomas knew that the Griever's probes and weapons had come out, searching for a feast. He imagined beetle blades out there, helping the creatures find their way. A few seconds later the shadow stopped; the light settled to a standstill, casting three unmoving planes of brightness into the room.

The door from the hallway suddenly whipped open. Gasps and shouts exploded throughout the room. The Gladers had been expecting something from the window, not from behind them. Thomas turned to see who'd opened the door, expecting a frightened Chuck or maybe a reconsidering Alby. But when he saw who stood there, his skull seemed to contract, squeezing his brain in shock.

It was Gally.


	35. 35

Gally's eyes raged with lunacy; his clothes were torn and filthy. He dropped to his knees and stayed there, his chest heaving with deep, sucking breaths. He looked about the room like a rabid dog searching for someone to bite. No one said a word. It was as if they all believed as Thomas did—that Gally was only a figment of their imagination.

"They'll kill you!" Gally screamed, spittle flying everywhere. "The Grievers will kill you all—one every night till it's over!"

Thomas watched, speechless, as Gally staggered to his feet and walked forward, dragging his right leg with a heavy limp. No one in the room moved a muscle as they watched, obviously too stunned to do anything. Even Newt stood mouth agape. Thomas was almost more afraid of their surprise visitor than he was of the Grievers just outside the window.

Gally stopped, standing just a few feet in front of Thomas and Newt; he pointed at Thomas with a bloody finger. " _You_ ," he said with a sneer so pronounced it went past comical to flat-out disturbing. "It's all your fault!" Without warning he swung his left hand, forming it into a fist as it came around and crashed into Thomas's ear. Crying out, Thomas crumpled to the ground, more taken by surprise than pain. He scrambled to his feet as soon as he'd hit the floor.

Newt had finally snapped out of his daze and pushed Gally away. Gally stumbled backward and crashed into the desk by the window. The lamp scooted off the side and broke into pieces on the ground. Thomas assumed Gally would retaliate, but he straightened instead, taking everyone in with his mad gaze.

"It can't be solved," he said, his voice now quiet and distant, spooky. "The shuck Maze'll kill all you shanks…. The Grievers'll kill you … one every night till it's over…. I… It's better this way…." His eyes fell to the floor. "They'll only kill you one a night … their stupid Variables…"

Thomas listened in awe, trying to suppress his fear so he could memorize everything the crazed boy said.

Newt took a step forward. "Gally, shut your bloody hole—there's a Griever right out the window. Just sit on your arse and be quiet—maybe it'll go away."

Gally looked up, his eyes narrowing. "You don't _get_ it, Newt. You're too stupid—you've always been too stupid. There's no way out—there's no way to win! They're gonna _kill_ you, all of you— _one by one!_ "

Screaming the last words, Gally threw his body toward the window and started tearing at the wooden boards like a wild animal trying to escape a cage. Before Thomas or anyone else could react, he'd already ripped one board free; he threw it to the ground.

"No!" Newt yelled, running forward. Thomas followed to help, in utter disbelief at what was happening.

Gally ripped off the second board just as Newt reached him. He swung it backward with both hands and connected with Newt's head, sent him sprawling across the bed as a small spray of blood sprinkled the sheets. Thomas pulled up short, readying himself for a fight.

"Gally!" Thomas yelled. "What are you—"

"You shut your fucking face!" Spit flew everywhere in his rage."You shut the _fuck UP!_ I know who you are, but I don't care anymore. I can only do what's right."

Thomas felt as if his feet were rooted to the ground. He was completely baffled by what Gally was saying. He watched the boy reach back and rip loose the final wooden board. The instant the discarded slab hit the floor of the room, the glass of the window exploded inward like a swarm of crystal wasps. Thomas covered his face and fell to the floor, kicking his legs out to scoot his body as far away as possible. When he bumped into the bed, he gathered himself and looked up, ready to face his world coming to an end.

A Griever's pulsating, bulbous body had squirmed halfway through the destroyed window, metallic arms with pincers snapping and clawing in all directions. Thomas was so terrified, he barely registered that everyone else in the room had fled to the hallway—all except Newt, who lay unconscious on the bed.

Frozen, Thomas watched as one of the Griever's long arms reached for the lifeless body. That was all it took to break him from his fear. _Anyone but Newt_. He scrambled to his feet, searched the floor around him for a weapon. All he saw were knives—they couldn't help him now. Panic exploded within him, consumed him.

Then Gally was speaking again; the Griever pulled back its arm, as if it needed the thing to be able to observe and listen. But its body kept churning, trying to squeeze its way inside.

Gally gave Thomas a long, haunted look, his eyes full of terror; then he turned and dove onto the writhing body of the Griever. Thomas yelled out as he watched every extended arm of the monster immediately retract and clasp onto Gally's arms and legs, making escape or rescue impossible. The boy's body sank several inches into the creature's squishy flesh, making a horrific squelching sound. Then, with surprising speed, the Griever pushed itself back outside the shattered frame of the window and began descending toward the ground below.

Thomas ran to the jagged, gaping hole, looked down just in time to see the Griever land and start scooting across the Glade, Gally's body appearing and disappearing as the thing rolled. The lights of the monster shone brightly, casting an eerie yellow glow across the stone of the open West Door, where the Griever exited into the depths of the Maze. Then, seconds later, several other monsters followed close behind their companion, whirring and clicking as if celebrating their victory.

Thomas was sickened to the verge of throwing up. He began to back away from the window, but something outside caught his eye. He quickly leaned out of the building to get a better look. A lone shape was sprinting across the courtyard of the Glade toward the exit through which Gally had just been taken.

Despite the poor light, Thomas realized who it was immediately. He screamed—yelled at him to stop—but it was too late.

Minho, running full speed, disappeared into the Maze.


	36. 36

Lights blazed throughout the Homestead. Gladers ran about, everyone talking at once. A couple of boys cried in a corner. Chaos ruled.

Thomas ignored all of it. He had to make decision. _Do I stay here to check on an look after an unconcious Newt? Or do I chase after Minho?_ Thomas felt as if this decision decided the fate of the world, life or death. Minho was getting away; he needed to decide quickly.

The Griever was gone; Newt would be fine. But what if woke up and Thomas wasn't there? How would that affect their already shattering relationship? _Obviously_ Minho needed Thomas more right now. Was he delusional? Why would he chase after the Griever? He could _die_.

Thomas decided. He ran into the hallway, then leaped down the stairs three at a time. He pushed his way through a crowd in the foyer, tore out of the Homestead and toward the West Door, sprinting. He pulled up just short of the threshold of the Maze, his instincts forcing him to think twice about entering. Newt called to him from behind, delaying the decision. He'd woken up already.

"Minho followed it out there!" Thomas yelled when Newt caught up to him, a small towel pressed against the wound on his head. A patchy spot of blood had already seeped through the white material.

"Someone told me," Newt said, pulling the towel away to look at it; he grimaced and put it back. "Fuck it, that hurts like a mother. Minho must've finally fried his last bit of brain cells—not to mention Gally. Always knew he was crazy."

Thomas could only worry about Minho. "I'm going after him."

"Time to be a _bloody_ hero again?!" Newt snapped.

Thomas looked at Newt sharply, hurt by the rebuke. That was three times and counting. Thomas couldn't continue to accept Newt speaking to him that way. Maybe this rift forming in their relationship was needed. Maybe Thomas had subconsiuously cheated on purpose. Maybe a part of him _wanted_ things to be over with Newt.

Thomas quickly snapped back. "You think I do things to impress you shanks? Please. All I care about is getting out of here."

"Yeah, well, you're a regular toughie. But right now we've got worse problems."

"What?" Thomas knew if he wanted to catch up with Minho he had no time for this.

"Somebody—" Newt began.

"There he is!" Thomas shouted. Minho had just turned a corner up ahead and was coming straight for them. Thomas cupped his hands. "You fucking _idiot!_ What were you doing?"

Minho waited until he made it back through the Door, then bent over, hands on his knees, and sucked in a few breaths before answering. "I just… wanted to… make sure."

"Make sure of _what?_ " Newt asked. "Lotta good you'd be, taken with Gally."

Minho straightened and put his hands on his hips, still breathing heavily. "Slim it... I just wanted to see if they went toward the Cliff... Toward the Griever Hole."

"And?" Thomas said.

"Bingo." Minho wiped sweat from his forehead.

"I just can't believe it," Newt said, almost whispering. "What a night."

Thomas's thoughts tried to drift toward the Hole and what it all meant, but he couldn't shake the thought of what Newt had been about to say before they saw Minho return. "What were you about to tell me?" he asked. "You said we had worse—"

"Yeah." Newt pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "You can still see the buggin' smoke."

Thomas looked in that direction. The heavy metal door of the Map Room was slightly ajar, a wispy trail of black smoke drifting out and into the gray sky.

"Somebody burned the Map trunks," Newt said. "Every last one of 'em."

 _The maps are important, Tom_. The girl's words, echoed across Thomas's mind. As much as he didn't want to. He needed to talk to her. Alone. If he followed his first thought and brought Newt with him, she might not be as open and honest.

Thomas now stood outside the window of the Slammer, having left Newt and Minho when they went to investigate the sabotage of the Map Room. Thomas had noticed them exchange an odd look before they split up, almost as if communicating some secret with their eyes. But Thomas could think of only one thing. Wishing he could be _anywhere_ else, Thomas found himself at the bars of the Slammer.

"Teresa?" he asked, roughly. He wanted her to understand that he didn't like her.

Her face appeared, hands rubbing her eyes. "Was anybody killed?" she asked, somewhat groggy.

"Were you sleeping?" Thomas asked, increduolsly.

"I was," she responded. "Until I heard something shred the Homestead to bits. What happened?"

Thomas shook his head in disbelief. "I don't know how you could've slept through the sound of all those Grievers out here."

"You try coming out of a coma sometime. See how you do." _Now answer my question_ , she said inside his head.

Thomas blinked, momentarily surprised by the voice since she hadn't done it in a while. "Cut that shit out!" he snapped. That was one of the _main reasons_ he didn't like her. The mind link _tied_ him to her somehow and he _didn't want it._

Teresa looked wounded. "Tom, do you _really not remember me?_ " Her voice was soft, a contrast from the crazed, hard sound he'd heard from her after she first arrived, when she'd delivered the message that everything was going to change.

"You mean _you_ remember _me?_ " he asked, the words a little heated.

"Yes. No. Maybe." She threw her arms up in disgust. "I can't explain it. I remember remembering," she muttered, sitting down with a heavy sigh; she pulled her legs up to wrap her arms around her knees. "Feelings. Emotions. Like I have all these shelves in my head, labeled for memories and faces, but they're empty. As if everything before this is just on the other side of a white curtain. Including you."

"But how do you know me?" He felt like the walls were spinning around him.

Teresa turned toward him. "I don't know. Something about before we came to the Maze. Something about us. It's mostly empty, like I said."

"You know about the Maze? Who told you? You just woke up."

"I … It's all very confusing right now." She held a hand out. "But I know you're my friend."

"I _am not_ your friend," Thomas almost growled it. "You came here and ruined everything."

Teresa blanched. "How can you _say_ that?" She appeared on the verge or tears. Thomas found that he didn't care. He completely ignored her question. He'd come here for a reason.

"You said something to me—in my head—right before you found me over here. You said 'The Maze is a code. The maps are important.' What did you mean?"

She shook her head slightly. "When I first woke up, it was like I'd entered an insane asylum—these strange guys hovering over my bed, the world tipping around me, memories swirling in my brain. I tried to reach out and grasp a few, and that was one of them. I can't really remember why I said it."

"Was there anything else?"

"Actually, yeah." She pulled up the sleeve of her left arm, exposing her bicep. Small letters were written across the skin in thin black ink.

"What's that?" he asked, leaning in for a better look.

"Read it yourself."

The letters were messy, but he could make them out when he got close enough.

WICKED is good

Thomas's heart beat faster. There that word was again. WICKED. "What does that mean?" Thomas asked fiercely.

Teresa's eyes hardened, as if she'd come to a determined resolution. "I'm done being _interrogated_ like this. If you want more from me, you're going to answer some of my questions. What happened with the Grievers earlier?" She stared back at Thomas just as fiercely.

He narrowed his eyes at her. Then he sighed in defeat. It was such a long story, and he didn't feel like telling the whole thing. "You don't know Gally, but he's a psycho kid who ran away. He showed up, jumped on a Griever, and they all took off into the Maze. It was really weird." He still couldn't believe it had actually happened.

"Which is saying a lot," Teresa said.

"Yeah. He said something about them killing us one a night until we were all dead—he said it at least twice."

Teresa frowned. "Just one a night? Why?"

"I don't know. He also said it had to do with… trials. Or variables. Something like that." Thomas switched gears.

Teresa eyed widened, as if she'd iust had an epiphany. "I don't know why I wrote this on my arm, but I just about what you told me I said. That the Maze is a code."

"What do you think it means?" Intensely interested, he tried to block out the shouts and chatter rumbling through the Glade as others found out about the Map Room being burned.

"Well, the walls move every day, right?"

"Yeah." He could tell she was really on to something.

"And Minho said they think there's a pattern, right?"

"Right." Gears were starting to shift into place inside Thomas's head as well, almost as if a prior memory was beginning to break loose.

"Well, I can't remember why I said that to you about the code. I know when I was coming out of the coma all sorts of thoughts and memories swirled through my head like crazy, almost as if I could feel someone emptying my mind, sucking them out. And I felt like I needed to say that thing about the code before I lost it. So there must be an important reason."

Thomas almost didn't hear her—he was thinking harder than he had in a while. "They always compare each section's Map to the one from the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, day by day, each Runner just analyzing their own Section. What if they're supposed to compare the Maps to _other_ sections…" He trailed off, feeling like he was on the cusp of something.

Teresa seemed to ignore him, doing her own theorizing. "The first thing the word code makes me think of is letters. Letters in the alphabet. Maybe the Maze is trying to spell something."

Everything came together so quickly in Thomas's mind, he almost heard an audible click, as if the pieces all snapped into place at once. "You're right—you're right! But the Runners have been looking at it wrong this whole time. They've been analyzing it the wrong way!"

Teresa gripped the bars now, her knuckles white, her face pressed against the iron rods. "What? What're you talking about?"

"Minho said the patterns repeat themselves, only they can't figure out what it means. But they've always studied them section by section, comparing one day to the next. What if each day is a separate piece of the code, and they're supposed to use all eight sections together somehow?"

"You think maybe each day is trying to reveal a word?" Teresa asked. "With the wall movements?"

Thomas nodded. "Or maybe a letter a day, I don't know. But they've always thought the movements would reveal how to escape, not spell something. They've been studying it like a map, not like a picture of something. We've gotta—" Then he stopped, remembering what he'd just been told by Newt. "Oh, no."

Teresa's eyes flared with worry. "What's wrong?"

"Oh no oh no oh no …" He turned to look at the Map Room. The smoke had lessened, but it still wafted out the door, a dark, hazy cloud covering the entire area.

"What's wrong?" Teresa repeated. She couldn't see the Map Room from her angle.

"Someone burned all the Maps. If there was a code, it's gone."


	37. 37

"I'll be back," Thomas lied, turning to go. "I gotta find Newt, see if any of the Maps survived."

"Wait!" Teresa yelled. "Get me out of here! I'm _starving!"_

But Thomas ignored her. He'd gotten the information he wanted from her. She was no longer useful. He set off at a sprint for the Map Room and its foggy black cloud of smoke. Needles of pain pricked his insides. If Teresa was right, and they'd been that close to figuring out some kind of clue to get out of there, only to see it literally lost in flames… It was so upsetting it hurt.

The first thing Thomas saw when he ran up was a group of Gladers huddled just outside the large steel door, still ajar, its outer edge blackened with soot. But as he got closer, he realized they were surrounding something on the ground, all of them looking down at it. He spotted Newt, kneeling there in the middle, leaning over a body.

Minho was standing behind him, looking distraught and dirty, and spotted Thomas first. "Where'd you go?" he asked.

"To talk to Teresa—what happened?" He waited anxiously for the next dump of bad news.

Minho's forehead creased in anger. "Our Map Room was set on fire and you ran off to talk to that weird girl? What's wrong with you?"

"She said something to me in the woods about the Maps when she escaped yesterday," Thomas explained impatiently. "I forgotten about it because I didn't think they mattered anymore—if you haven't figured out the Maps by now…"

Minho looked disgusted, the pale light and fog of smoke making his face seem almost sinister. "Yeah, this'd be a great freaking time to give up. What the—"

"I'm sorry—just tell me what happened." Thomas leaned over the shoulder of a skinny boy standing in front of him to get a look at the body on the ground.

It was Alby, flat on his back, a huge gash on his forehead. Blood seeped down both sides of his head, some into his eyes, crusting there. Newt was cleaning it with a wet rag, gingerly, with so much care Thomas wanted to vomit. The sight of them burned Thomas to the core. Newt couldn't love anyone else because he was so infatuaded on someone who didn't want him.

"Winston found him out here, half dead, the Map Room blazing. Some shanks got in there and put it out, but way too late. All the trunks are burned to a freaking crisp. I suspected Alby at first, but whoever did it slammed his shuck head against the table—you can see where. It's nasty."

"Who do you think did it?" Thomas was hesitant to tell him about the possible discovery he and Teresa had made. With no Maps, the point was moot.

"Maybe Gally before he showed up in the Homestead and went psycho? Maybe the Grievers? I don't know, and I don't care. Doesn't matter."

Thomas was surprised at the sudden change of heart. "Now who's the one giving up?"

Minho's head snapped up so quickly, Thomas took a step backward. There was a flash of anger there, but it quickly melted into an odd expression of surprise or confusion. "That's not what I meant, shank."

Thomas narrowed his eyes in curiosity. "What did—"

"Just shut your hole for now." Minho put his fingers to his lips, his eyes darting around to see if anyone was looking at him. "Just shut your hole. You'll find out soon enough."

Thomas took a deep breath and thought. If he expected the other boys to be honest, he should be honest too. He decided he'd better share about the possible Maze code, Maps or no Maps. "Minho, I need to tell you and Newt something. When Teresa was first coming out of her deep sleep, she had memories flashing through her mind. She, um"—he just barely stopped himself from saying she'd said it inside his mind—"she told me later that she remembers that the Maze is a code. That maybe instead of solving it to find a way out, it's trying to send us a message."

"A code?" Minho asked. "How's it a code?"

Thomas shook his head, wishing he could answer. "I don't know for sure—you're way more familiar with the Maps than I am. But I have a theory. That's why I was hoping you guys could remember some of them."

Minho glanced at Newt, his eyebrows raised in question. Newt nodded.

"What?" Thomas asked, fed up with them keeping information from him. "You guys keep acting like you have a secret."

Minho rubbed his eyes with both hands, took a deep breath. "We hid the Maps, Thomas."

At first it didn't compute. "Come again?"

Minho pointed at the Homestead. "We _hid_ the Maps in the weapons room, put dummies in their place. Because of Alby's warning. And because of the so-called Ending that chick triggered. They're all safe and sound," Minho said. "Every last one of those suckers. So if you have a theory, get to talking."

"Take me to them," Thomas said, itching to have a look.

"Okay, let's go."


	38. 38

Minho switched on the light, making Thomas squint for a second until his eyes got used to it. Menacing shadows clung to the boxes of weapons scattered across the table and floor, blades and sticks and other nasty-looking devices seeming to wait there, ready to take on a life of their own and kill the first person stupid enough to come close. The dank, musty smell only added to the creepy feel of the room.

"There's a hidden storage closet back here," Minho explained, walking past some shelves into a dark corner. "Only a couple of us know about it."

Thomas heard the creak of an old wooden door, and then Minho was dragging a cardboard box across the floor; the scrape of it sounded like a knife on bone. "I put each trunk's worth in its own box, eight boxes total. They're all in there."

"Which one is this?" Thomas asked; he knelt down next to it, eager to get started.

"Just open it and see—each page is marked, remember?"

Thomas pulled on the crisscrossed lid flaps until they popped open. The Maps for Section Two lay in a messy heap. Thomas reached in and pulled out a stack.

"Okay," he said. "The Runners have always compared these day to day, looking to see if there was a pattern that would somehow help figure out a way to an exit. You even said you didn't really know what you were looking for, but you kept studying them anyway. Right?"

Minho nodded, arms folded. He looked as if someone were about to reveal the secret of immortal life.

"Well," Thomas continued, "what if all the wall movements had nothing to do with a map or a maze or anything like that? What if instead the pattern spelled words? Some kind of clue that'll help us escape."

Minho pointed at the Maps in Thomas's hand, letting out a frustrated sigh. "Dude, you have any idea how much we've studied these things? Don't you think we would've noticed if it were spelling out freaking words?"

"Maybe it's too hard to see with the naked eye, just comparing one day to the next. And maybe you weren't supposed to compare one day to the next, but look at it one day at a time?"

Newt laughed. "Tommy, I might not be the sharpest guy in the Glade, but sounds like you're talkin' straight out your arse to me."

While he'd been talking, Thomas's mind had been spinning even faster. The answer was within his grasp—he knew he was almost there. It was just so hard to put into words.

"Okay, okay," he said, starting over. "You've always had one Runner assigned to one section, right?"

"Right," Minho replied. He seemed genuinely interested and ready to understand.

"And that Runner makes a Map every day, and then compares it to Maps from previous days, for that section. What if, instead, you were supposed to compare the eight sections to each other, every day? Each day being a separate clue or code? Did you ever compare sections to other sections?"

Minho rubbed his chin, nodding. "Yeah, kind of. We tried to see if they made something when put together—of course we did that. We've tried everything."

Thomas pulled his legs up underneath him, studying the Maps in his lap. He could just barely see the lines of the Maze written on the second page through the page resting on top. In that instant, he knew what they had to do. He looked up at the others.

"Wax paper."

"Huh?" Minho asked. "What the—"

"Just trust me. We need wax paper and scissors. And every black marker and pencil you can find."

Frypan wasn't too happy having a whole box of his wax paper rolls taken away from him, especially with their supplies being cut off. He argued that it was one of the things he always requested, that he used it for baking. They finally had to tell him what they needed it for to convince him to give it up.

After ten minutes of hunting down pencils and markers—most had been in the Map Room and were destroyed in the fire— and after pacifying the sreaming girl with food ("Let me out of here! Or at least feed me! You're _monsters_ if you let me starve to death in here!") Thomas sat around the worktable in the weapons basement with Newt and Minho. They hadn't found any scissors, so Thomas had grabbed the sharpest knife he could find.

"This better be good," Minho said. Warning laced his voice, but his eyes showed some interest.

Newt leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, as if waiting for a magic trick. "Get on with it."

"Okay." Thomas was eager to do so, but was also scared to death it might end up being nothing. He handed the knife to Minho, then pointed at the wax paper. "Start cutting rectangles, about the size of the Maps. Newt, help me grab the first ten or so Maps from each section box."

"What is this, kiddie craft time?" Minho held up the knife and looked at it with disgust. "Why don't you just tell us what the klunk we're doing this for?"

"I'm done explaining," Thomas said, knowing they just had to see what he was picturing in his mind. He stood to go rummage through the storage closet. "It'll be easier to show you. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong, and we can go back to running around the Maze like mice."

Minho sighed, clearly irritated, then muttered something under his breath.

Thomas stepped into the dusty little closet and opened up all the boxes, grabbing a small stack of Maps from each one. Returning to the table, Thomas found that Minho had cut twenty sheets already, making a messy pile to his right as he threw each new piece on top.

Thomas sat down and grabbed a few. He held one of the papers up to the light, saw how it shone through with a milky glow. It was exactly what he needed. He grabbed a marker. "All right. Trace the last ten or so days onto a piece of this stuff. Make sure you write the info on top so we can keep track of what's what. When we're done, I think we might see something."

"What—" Minho began.

"Just bloody keep cutting," Newt ordered. "I think I know where he's going with this." Thomas was relieved someone was finally getting it.

They got to work, tracing from original Maps to wax paper, one by one, trying to keep it clean and correct while hurrying as fast as possible. Thomas used the side of a stray slab of wood as a makeshift ruler, keeping his lines straight. Soon he'd completed five maps, then five more. The others two the same pace, working feverishly. Box by box, section by section, they continued on.

"I've had enough," Newt finally announced, breaking the quiet. "My fingers are bloody burning like a mother. See if it's working."

Thomas put his marker down, then flexed his fingers, hoping he'd been right about all this. "Okay, give me the last few days of each section—make piles along the table, in order from Section One to Section Eight. One here"—he pointed at an end—"to Eight here." He pointed at the other end.

Silently, they did as he asked, sorting through what they'd traced until eight low stacks of wax paper lined the table.

Jittery and nervous, Thomas picked up one page from each pile, making sure they were all from the same day, keeping them in order. He then laid them one on top of the other so that each drawing of the Maze matched the same day above it and below it, until he was looking at eight different sections of the Maze at once. What he saw amazed him. Almost magically, like a picture coming into focus, an image developed. Minho let out a small gasp.

Lines crossed each other, up and down, so much so that what Thomas held in his hands looked like a checkered grid. But certain lines in the middle—lines that happened to appear more often than any other—made a slightly darker image than the rest. It was subtle, but it was, without a doubt, there.

Sitting in the exact center of the page was the letter F.


	39. 39

Thomas felt a rush of different emotions: relief that it had worked, surprise, excitement, wonder at what it could lead to.

"What in the bloody hell..."

"Could be a coincidence," Minho said. "Do more, quick."

Thomas did, putting together the eight pages of each day, in order from Section One to Section Eight. Each time, an obvious letter formed in the center of the crisscrossed mass of lines. After the F was an L, then an O, then an A, and a T. Then C … A … T.

"Look," Thomas said, pointing down the line of stacks they'd formed, confused, but happy that the letters were so obvious. "It spells FLOAT and then it spells CAT."

" _Float cat?_ " Newt asked. "Doesn't sound like a bloody rescue code to me."

"We just need to keep working," Thomas said.

Another couple of combinations made them realize that the second word was actually CATCH. FLOAT and CATCH.

"Definitely not a coincidence," Minho said.

"Definitely not," Thomas agreed. He couldn't wait to see more. "We need to go through all of them—all those boxes in there."

"Let's get on it." Newt said.

"We can't help," Minho said.

Thomas looked at him, puzzled. _Why the hell not?_ "Thomas and I need to get the Runners out in the Maze."

"What?" Thomas asked. "This is _way_ more important!"

"Maybe," Minho answered calmly, "but we can't miss a day out there. Not now."

Thomas felt a rush of disappointment. Running the Maze seemed like such a waste of time compared to figuring out the code. "Why, Minho? You said the pattern's basically been repeating itself for months—one more day won't mean a thing."

Minho slammed his hand against the table. "That's _bullshit_ , Thomas! Of all days, this might be the most important to get out there. Something might've changed, something might've opened up. In fact, with the freaking walls not closing anymore, I think we should try your idea—stay out there overnight and do some deeper exploring."

That piqued Thomas's interest—he had been wanting to do that. Conflicted, he asked, "But what about this code? What about—"

"Tommy," Newt said in a consoling voice. "Minho's right. You shanks go out and get Runnin'. I'll grab Ben, Chuck, and few other Gladers we can trust and get workin' on this."

For a moment Thomas simply stared at Newt, bewildered. Was Newt really going to let Thomas go of into the Maze with Minho alone again? Without any arguement?

Newt stared back as if he were ginuinly confused at Thomas' bafflement. "Is somthing wrong, Tommy?"

"No..." But Thomas' frown didn't let up as reality sank in. He and Newt had crumbled. Because of his infidelity, their relationship was over. Thomas. "Everthing's fine." Thomas followed Minho and they went upstairs.

ooo

Thomas helped Minho gather the Runners to give them the news and organize them for the big journey. He was surprised at how readily everyone agreed that it was time to do some more in-depth exploring of the Maze and stay out there overnight. Even though he was nervous and scared, he told Minho he could take one of the sections himself, but the Keeper refused. They had eight experienced Runners to do that. Thomas was to go with him—which left Thomas with conflcited emotions. He was so relieved to not have to do it alone that he was almost ashamed of himself . But he was also nervous about being alone in the Maze with Minho again. The thought of it brought back memories of what had happened the last time that happened. _What if it happens again?_ Thomas thought. Despite these feelings, there was also excitement as well—maybe this was the day they'd find an exit.


	40. 40 (M)

Thomas and Minho barely spoke. "Thanks for not saying anything to Newt." Thomas said, running alongside Minho. Minho let out a single grunt in response and they continued on. They hadn't stopped until they were halfway to the last dead end of Section Eight. Thomas was so confused. What did the grunt mean? What was he to Minho? Just a quick fuck? Minho had been flirting so hard before and now... What happened? Minho allowed a twenty-minute break and then they were back at it. They ran along in silence.

Two breaks later, Minho finally slowed to a walk as they headed down a long corridor that ended in a wall. He stopped and took a seat against the dead end. The ivy was especially thick there; it made the world seem green and lush, hiding the hard, impenetrable stone.

Thomas joined him on the ground and they attacked their modest lunch of sandwiches and sliced fruit.

"This is it," Minho said after his second bite. "We've already run through the whole section. Surprise, surprise—no exits."

Thomas already knew this, but hearing it made his heart sink even lower. Without another word—from himself or Minho—he finished his food and readied himself to explore. To look for who-knew-what.

For the next few hours, he and Minho scoured the ground, felt along the walls, climbed up the ivy in random spots. They found nothing, and Thomas grew more and more discouraged. The only thing interesting was another one of those odd signs that read World In Catastrophe—Killzone Experiment Department. Minho didn't even give it a second glance.

They had another meal, searched some more. They found nothing, and Thomas was beginning to get ready to accept the inevitable—that there was nothing to find. When wall-closing time rolled around, he started looking for signs of Grievers, was struck by an icy hesitation at every corner. He and Minho always had knives clasped firmly in both hands. But nothing showed up until almost midnight.

Minho spotted a Griever disappearing around a corner ahead of them; and it didn't come back. Thirty minutes later, Thomas saw one do the exact same thing. An hour after that, a Griever came charging through the Maze right past them, not even pausing. Thomas almost collapsed from the sudden rush of terror.

He and Minho continued on.

"I think they're playing with us," Minho said a while later.

Thomas realized he'd given up on searching the walls and was just heading back toward the Glade in a depressed walk. From the looks of it, Minho felt the same way.

"What do you mean?" Thomas asked.

The Keeper sighed. "I think the Creators want us to know there's no way out. The walls aren't even moving anymore—it's like this has all just been some stupid game and it's time to end. And they want us to go back and tell the other Gladers. How much you wanna bet when we get back we find out a Griever took one of them just like last night? I think Gally was right—they're gonna just keep killing us."

Thomas didn't responf. He felt the truth of what Minho said, but he refused to give into Minho's despair. There had to be a way out. If there wasn't, what was the point? Thomas was about to voice this when Minho freaked out, startling him.

"I'm _sick_ of this!" Minho spat in the ivy, veins popping out of his neck. "I'm sick of it! It's over! It's all over!" He took off his backpack and threw it on the ground. "There's no exit, never was, never will be. We're all fucked!"

"Minho, don't say that." Thomas squeezed his arm consolingly. "We can't give up. You've fought for almost _four_ _years_." The despondently angry look on Minho's face was depressing Thomas. He bunched his eyebrows in concern. He hadn't seen the other boy look so hopeless since the night they were trapped in the maze together.

"Yeah. All those years _wasted_."

"No... We just have to..." Have to _what?_ Thomas wanted to console Minho but he didn't know what to say. So he just kissed Minho. He pushed the other boy into the vine filled wall and tenderly kissed him. Minho simply stood there, dejected, and let Thomas do it."We're gonna be fine, okay? Don't give up. We're _going_ to get out of here." He kissed Minho again, and slowly unbuttoned his own pants. "Come on. I want to make you feel better." He kissed Minho again, and again. And slowly Minho kissed back. He just stood there moving his lips.

Looks like Thomas would have to take charge. Minho let Thomas unbutton his pants as well and Thomas reached into the other boys runnie undies to find a completely flaccid cock. Thomas pulled Minho's pants and underwear down his thighs, and Minho let him. Thomas was determined to pull him out of his mopey mood. Minho was always so cocky and confident. Thomas didn't like seeing him like this.

Thomas knelt in front of the flaccid dick and sucked it into his mouth. It took a couple of seconds but eventually the dick spoke for itself. It slowly grew inside Thomas's mouth. _There we go_ , Thomas thought. _Come back to me, Minho._ When he reached his full mast, Minho moaned and his fingers found the back of Thomas's head, curling into the dark hair as Thomas hollowed his cheeks around the rod and bobbed his head on it.

"Mngh. Fuck, Thomas." Minho had begun to push into the back of Thomas's head. Yes. That's what Thomas wanted, a response. _React to me_. Thomas popped off the thick dick and stood next to Minho. He pulled his shorts down his thighs and placed his hands on the wall of the Maze, just like Minho had. He poked his ass out for the boy.

"You going to fuck me or not?" When Minho grinned at Thomas's words, Thomas grinned back, happy to pull a smile out of the boy. Minho stroked himself a few times while he lined himeslf up behind Thomas.

Despite his confident appearance, Thomas was a little nervous and he tensed a little when he felt Minho penetrate him, but he quickly forced himself to relax and Minho slowly slid in to the hilt. Thomas could feeling the sparse little fuzzy pubic hairs brushing into his smooth ass.

"Oh my God, Thomas." Minho pulled out until nothing but his plump head was left, then he pressed back into the tight heat. " _Fuck_."

Thomas stood there, tilted forward, knees slightly bent, and took the dick, he let the wide appendage fill him. When he completely relaxed, he found something that resemlbed pleasure. He reached down to touch himself and the the pleasure multiplied. Before long, Thomas's moans were mixed with Minho's.

"Fuck me, Minho. Give me that dick. Oh my _God_." Thomas started pushing back to meet Minho thrust ,and Minho gripped Thomas hips tightly.

"You want it?" Minho asked seductively.

"Yes." Thomas hissed a little on the s. "Deep as you can get it. Fuck me."

"Yeah?" Encouraged by Thomas's words, Minho stroaked faster and harder. "Oh fuck. Thomas you're so fucking _tight._ Your ass is amazing!" Minho's strokes were long and deep. Thomas could feel the wide cock stretching him out. Then, despite his best efforts, Minho burst deep into the ass with a pleasurable scream. Thomas could feel it inside of him. Minho shot multiple ropes of come into his ass, filling him up. A few more quick pumps with his hands and Thomas was relieving himself on the viny Maze wall. The two of them stood there panting. Minho winced as he pulled out.

"Feel better?" Thomas asked, turning around with a smug grin.

"Yeah," Minho panted, a little sweat running down his forehead. He smiled and kissed Thomas. "Thanks, man."

"Anytime. Come on. Let's go home."

 _Thomas! Get somebody to let me out of here, right NOW!_ Thomas almost jumped at the girl's voice in his head. She sounded furious. _Do it, or I'm going keep talking to you, badgering and badgering on and on about sinceless things just to annoy you! I'll talk about mentrals cycles and how bloody they are! I'll talk about old granny panties and hairy armpits and—_

 _FINE!_ Thomas screamed. For a second he thought Minho would scold him and ask what was going on, but he realized that he hadn't screamed out loud, but in his head, and it had given him a slight headache.

 _Oh my God, I heard you!_

"You okay, Thomas?" Minho asked, his eyebrows bunching in concern.

"Yeah," Thomas replied with a convincing smile, despite his throbbing head. "Let's go home." They set off in what they both inexplicably knew was the direction of the Glade. _Fine. I'll convince someone to let you out. Just leave me alone._

 _Promise_. It wasn't a question. It demand.

Thomas metally sighed. _I promise_.

Teresa was silent.


	41. 41 (M)

By Thomas's watch, it was early morning when he and Minho stepped through the West Door back into the Glade. The sky should should be on the break of dawn. Surprisingly, despite the dead light and everything falling apart, the day in the Glade appeared to be proceeding business as usual—farming, gardening, cleaning, the boys bustled about. Thomas and Minho went directly to the Homestead. They weren't surprised to fing Newt passed out in chair next to a bed that held a lightly snoring Alby. Minho then found a matress to collaspe on. Thomas didn't hesistate. He crawled into bed behind Minho and passed out as well.

ooo

A few hours later, Thomas was awoken from his much needed sleep by the girl's shrill voice.

 _Thomas! Why am I still in here?!_

 _Calm down,_ Thomas replied groggily. _I'm working on it_.

 _Really? It sounds like you were_ sleeping _!_

 _Relax. Give me another hour._

 _Hurry up!_ And she fell silent again.

With a yawn he slowly crawled out from behind a still snoring Minho, and made his way to the Map room, figuring this is where he'd find Newt or Alby. He stopped by the bathroom to relieve himself and he wound up peeing outside after he approached the closed bathroom door.

"Mngh..." Thomas heard a moan from the other side. "Just like that. Oh _God_..."

Thomas's eyes widened. Who was that? Minho was upstairs. The girl was in the Slammer. Someone else was messing around with another guy! Thomas was hesitant at first, but he desperatley wanted to know who was behind the tipped over to the door and put his ear to it.

"Fuck... yes... Mngh..." He couldn't recognoze the voice panting like that. Thomas reached down and slowly turned the handle to find that hoever was in there had forgotten to lock it. Thomas could just casually walk in, like he hadn't heard anything. Bracing himself, Thomas pushed the door open and put on Emmy Award winning show of surprise.

"Fuck, dude you didn't lock the door!" one the boys said.

"I thought _you_ did!" the other replied. Thomas froze. Before him, Ben sat on the toilet, his pants around his ankles with Zart on his knees in front of him. Zart held Ben stiff dick in his palm and a snail trail of saliva hung between the cock and Zart mouth. They both stared at Thomas in horror. Then Zart panicked and dashed passed Thomas and out the bathroom.

Thomas turned three different shades of red. "I'm sorry," Thomas mumbled, swiftly closing the door.

"Thomas wait!" he heard Ben call. But Thomas ignored him. He made to botl down the hallway and felt a tight grip on his wrist. "Zart and I... we," Ben struggled with his words for a second. "We're not like, you know... _you_. We're not _gay_ or anything. We just got tired of wanking and decided to help each other out."

Thomas smiled awkwardly. "I understand. I figured a few of you guys probably did that." Thomas shrugged. "It's no biggie. I'm sorry I walked in on you." Thomas turned to leave again, eager to escape the uncomfortable situation. But the other boy's grip didn't let up on his wrist.

Ben stared at Thomas intently. They stared at each other for a second. Thomas had _long_ since stop fearing a second attack from Ben. But in that silent moment, Thomas grew a little wary. Then Ben spoke. "I just want you to know that Zart and I aren't a _couple_ or anything like that."

Thomas nodded. "Yeah." He turned again. But once again, Ben's grip didn't let up. Thomas turned back annoyed, with full intentions of demanding Ben realease him, but Ben—a little not so gently—pushed Thomas's back into the wall of the bathroom.

 _He's attacking me again! I'm gonna die!_ Thomas open his mouth to scream for help but found Ben's tongue inside of his mouth instead.

Just as he had the first time he'd kissed Minho, Thomas instinctively pulled Ben in closer, kissing the boy back. And once again, Thomas realized who it was he was kissing.

"Wait. What are you—"

"Shh." Ben silenced him with a finger over Thomas's lips. "I can tell that you want this." Ben other hand groped the already stiff member through Thomas's pants. "You never let me thank you properly," Ben whispered.

Thomas sighed. "That's because—" Thomas's words were cut short by Ben's lips. Ben kissed Thomas and pressed their bodies together. "Just let me thank you."

 _What the hell?_ Thomas thought. Thomas knew Ben was only doing this because Thomas had interrupted him and Zart. Ben hadn't got to finish. Ben was killing two birds wsith one stone.

Thomas walked over and locked the bathroom door. Ben smiled a triumphant smile, fumbling with the button of Thomas's britches. Seconds later, the pants were around Thomas's thighs and Ben was on his knees in front of him. Thomas's dick was emmersed in the boy's warm mouth. Thomas's hand subconsiously found the back of Ben's head and he pushed his stiff cock deeper down Ben's throat. Thomas's head hit the wall behind him.

"Fuck, Ben..."

"You like that?" Ben looked up at Thomas, then sucked the appendage back down.

"Yeah. If I knew this is what you wanted I'd've let you thank me sooner." Thomas smiled own at the sight of his dick shoved down the boy's throat. Thomas didn't know when he started doing it, but he was pushing his hips forward, shoving himself deeper into Ben's mouth.

"You want to fuck me?" Ben asked. Thomas's knees almost gave out at the words. Ben rose in front of Thomas and turned around. He pulled his pants down his thighes, exposing his plump butt to Thomas. Ben looked over his shoulder. "Go on. Touch it. I know you want to." Thomas complied, reached out and squeezed the lucious globes. Ben's ass was smooth and hairess. "You want to shove your dick up my ass? Huh?"

"Yeah." Thomas rubbed his dick in between the cheeks. Then he lined himself up and pressed in, wrapping his arms around Ben to hold the boy in place. The two boys moaned together as Thomas bottomed out inside of Ben.

The boys moaned and panted together standing there. It appeared as if Thomas was simply hugging Ben from behind, rubbing his abdomen against the boy. It was a quick fuck, less than a minute. Ben's ass was tight around Thomas's dick. Ben had begun to pump himself and after a short moment, Ben was coming hard, pulling Thomas oragasm out where it filled Ben's ass.

The two boys stood there panting for seconds, Thomas still clutching Ben, his softening cock still buried. "You're welcome," Thomas whispered in Ben's ear.


	42. 42

Thomas was right. Newt and several Gladers he didn't know were gathered around the table, standing. Piles of Maps lay scattered all over the place, including the floor. It looked as if a tornado had touched down right in the middle of the room. One of the faces Thomas did recognize. Zart. He blanched when he saw Thomas just as Newt dismissed his helpers—they clomped up the wooden stairs, a couple of them grumbling about doing all that work for nothing. Zart was the first out of the room.

"Come check this out," Newt said. "I'll get down on my knees and kiss your bloody feet if you can figure it out," Newt said.

Thomas walked over, eager to see what they'd come up with. Newt held out the paper, eyebrows raised.

"No doubt this is right," he said. "Just don't have a clue what it means."

Thomas took the paper and scanned it quickly. There were numbered circles running down the left side, one to six. Next to each one was a word written in big blocky letters.

FLOAT

CATCH

BLEED

DEATH

STIFF

PUSH

That was it. Six words.

Disappointment washed over Thomas—he'd been sure the purpose of the code would be obvious once they had it figured out. He looked up at Newt with a sunken heart. "That's all? Are you sure they're in the right order?"

Newt took the paper back from him. "The Maze has been repeating those words for months—we finally quit when that became clear. Each time, after the word PUSH, it goes a full week without showing any letter at all, and then it starts over again with FLOAT. So we figured that's the first word, and that's the order."

Thomas folded his arms and leaned against the shelves next to Newt. Without thinking about it, he'd memorized the six words, welded them to his mind. Float. Catch. Bleed. Death. Stiff. Push. That didn't sound good.

"Cheerful, don't ya think?" Newt said, mirroring his thoughts exactly.

"Yeah," Thomas replied with a frustrated groan. "We need to get Minho down here—maybe he knows something we don't. I just know that we can't stay in the. Glade. Gally was right. They're going to keep k—" He froze, hit by a dizzy spell; he would've fallen to the floor if he hadn't had the shelves to lean on. An idea had just occurred to him. A horrible, terrible, awful idea. The worst idea in the history of horrible, terrible, awful ideas. "I think we have to go through the Griever Hole. We have to fight our way out of here."

" _What?_ We can't do that! The Grievers are there!"

"If the Grievers can get out that way, then so can we!" Thomas argued. "We can't stay here and let them kill us off one by one. The Creators cut off our water, the sun, everything! The Box isn't coming anymore. Without that stuff we'll eventually die anyway. We can't stay here Newt. We have to try the only thing we haven't tried. Going out the way the Grievers come in."

Newt ran a hand through his hair. "Tommy. You're making a lot of since, but we can't force that Gladers to do that."

"Who said anything about forcing? We'll ask them politely. If anyone doesn't want to come, they can stay here and die. If none of them want to, which I doubt, then so be it." Another terrible thought crossed his mind.

Newt sighed, defeated by Thomas's logic. "Fine. You really do have a point. We can't stay here much longer. Not with Doors staying open. I'll call a Gathering and we'll—"

 _Thomas! That's it! Get me out of here right now._

Thomas grunted furiously. To Newt it looked abrupt and unattached. _I tried!_ Thomas lied. _The only thing I could get him to do is feed you more often._

"Tommy?" Newt asked, stepping closer with a look of concern creasing his forehead. "What's wrong?" Thomas shook his head, composing himself. Thomas rubbed his temples.

 _That's not good enough!_ Teresa argued.

 _Well that's all you're gonna get!_ Thomas argued back. The girl grunted furiously, but argued no more.

"Newt," Thomas sighed. "Have you guys fed the girl today?""

" _What?_ " Newt asked incredulously. "Where'd she come from. We were talking about this." Newt shook the Maps in his hand. Thomas took that as a no.

"We can't let her starve. Come on. We'll feed her, then go to the Gathering."

ooo

The next few hours were frantic. Newt and Alby called the Gathering and they had all agreed with Thomas. They had to try something. Staying in the Glade was just like staying in the Maze with Doors open.

Most of the Gladers ended up agreeing to go—even more than Thomas would've guessed. Even Alby decided to make the run. Though no one admitted it, Thomas bet most of them were banking on the theory that only one person would be killed by the Grievers, and they figured their chances of not being the unlucky sap were decent. Those who decided to stay in the Glade were few but adamant and loud. They mainly walked around sulking, trying to tell others how stupid they were. Eventually, they gave up and kept their distance.

As for Thomas and the rest of those committed to the escape, there was a ton of work to be done.

Backpacks were handed out and stuffed full of supplies. Frypan—Newt told Thomas that the Cook had been one of the last Keepers to agree to go—was in charge of gathering all the food and figuring out a way to distribute it evenly among the packs. Syringes of Grief Serum were included. Chuck was in charge of filling water bottles and getting them out to everyone. Chuck had tried to act brave from the time he first found out they were going for it, but his sweaty skin and dazed eyes revealed the truth.

Minho went to the Cliff with a group of Runners, taking ivy ropes and rocks to test the invisible Griever Hole one last time. They had to hope the creatures would keep to their normal schedule and not come out during daytime hours. Thomas had had no idea what to expect or what might be waiting for them. This is why they'd decided to make their escape at night and hope that most of the Grievers were in the Maze, not inside their Hole.

When Minho returned, safe and sound, Thomas thought he seemed very optimistic that it really was an exit. Or entrance. Depending on how you looked at it.

Thomas helped Newt distribute the weapons, and even more innovative ones were created in their desperation to be prepared for the Grievers. Wooden poles were carved into spears or wrapped in barbwire; the knives were sharpened and fastened with twine to the ends of sturdy branches hacked from trees in the woods; chunks of broken glass were duct-taped to shovels. By the end of the day, the Gladers had turned into a small army. A very pathetic, ill-prepared army, Thomas thought, but an army all the same.

Thomas was terrified that what they were about to do was a whole pile of stupid.


	43. 43

Just before the normal Door-closing time, Alby released Teresa. He decided that she, like everyone else, should have the option of staying in the Glade or fighting for freedom. He kept a close eye on her though. Frypan prepared one last meal to carry them through the night. The mood hanging over the Gladers as they ate couldn't have been more somber or sodden with fear. Thomas found himself sitting next to Chuck, absently picking at his food.

Before Thomas new what was happening, everyone was laden down with weapons and running through the Maze. Thomas kept a steady pace as he ran with the other Gladers along the stone pathways toward the Cliff. He'd grown used to running the Maze, but this was completely different. The sounds of shuffling feet echoed up the walls and the red lights of the beetle blades flashed more menacingly in the ivy—the Creators were certainly watching, listening. One way or another, there was going to be a fight.

The group was spread out across the full width of the corridor, running at a steady but quick pace—Thomas wondered how long the non-Runners would hold up. As if in response to the thought, Newt fell back, finally tapping Minho on the shoulder. "You lead the way now," Thomas heard him say.

Minho nodded and ran to the front, guiding the Gladers through all the turns necessary. Every step was agonizing for Thomas. What courage he'd gathered had turned to dread, and he wondered when the Grievers would finally give chase. Wondered when the fight would begin.

And so it went for him as they kept moving, those Gladers not used to running such distances gasping in huge gulps of air. But no one quit. On and on they ran, with no signs of Grievers. And as the time passed, Thomas let the slightest trickle of hope enter his system—maybe they'd make it before getting attacked. Maybe.

Finally, after the longest hour of Thomas's life, they reached the long alley that led to the last turn before the Cliff—a short corridor to the right that branched off like the stem of the letter T.

Thomas, his heart thumping, sweat slicking his skin, had moved up right behind Minho, Chuck at his side. Minho slowed at the corner, then stopped, holding up a hand to tell Thomas and the others to do the same. Then he turned, a look of horror on his face.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered.

Thomas shook his head, trying to squash the terror Minho's expression had given him.

Minho crept ahead and peeked around the sharp edge of stone, looking toward the Cliff. Thomas had seen him do that before, when they'd followed a Griever to this very spot. Just like that time, Minho jerked back and turned to face him.

"Oh, no," the Keeper said through a moan. "Oh, _no..._."

Then Thomas heard it. Griever sounds. It was as if they'd been hiding, waiting, and now were coming to life. He didn't even have to look—he knew what Minho was going to say before he said it.

"There's at least a dozen of them. Maybe fifteen." He reached up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "They're just _waiting_ for us!"

Newt and Alby had moved up the line of waiting Gladers to join Thomas and the others. Apparently Minho's pronouncement had already been whispered through the ranks, because the first thing Newt said was "Well, we knew we'd have to fight." But the tremor in his voice gave him away—he was just trying to say the right thing.

Thomas felt it himself. It'd been easy to talk about—the nothing-to-lose fight, the hope that just one of them would be taken, the chance to finally escape. But now it was here, literally around the corner. Doubts that he could go through with it seeped into his mind and heart. He wondered why the Grievers were just waiting—the beetle blades had obviously let them know the Gladers were coming. Were the Creators enjoying this?

A loud noise from behind startled them all—they spun to see more Grievers moving down the corridor toward them, spikes flaring, metal arms groping, coming from the direction of the Glade. Thomas was just about to say something when he heard sounds from the other end of the long alley—he looked to see yet more Grievers.

The enemy was on all sides, blocking them off completely. The Gladers compressed into a tighter group around him, everyone facing outward, huddled together in the center of the T intersection, clutching their meager weapons. Thomas was pressed between Newt and Zart—he could feel Newt trembling. No one said a word. Thomas could see the back of the girl's head on the outside of the small huddle. She was trembling with wide eyes like everyone else. The only sounds were the eerie moans and whirrs of machinery coming from the Grievers, sitting there as if enjoying the little trap they'd set for the humans. Their disgusting bodies heaved in and out with mechanical wheezes of breath.

Thomas looked over at Newt. "Got any ideas?"

"No," he replied, his voice just the tiniest bit shaky. "I don't understand what they're bloody waitin' for."

"We shouldn't have come," Alby said. He'd been so quiet, his voice sounded odd, especially with the hollow echo the Maze walls created.

Thomas was in no mood for whining—they had to do something. "Well, we'd be no better off in the Homestead. Hate to say it, but if one of us dies, that's better than all of us." He really hoped the one-person-a-night thing was true now. Seeing all these Grievers close up hit home with an explosion of reality—could they really fight them all?

A long moment passed before Alby replied. "Maybe I should …" He trailed off and started walking forward—in the direction of the Cliff—slowly, as if in a trance. Thomas watched in detached awe—he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Alby?" Newt said. "Get back here!"

Instead of responding, Alby took off running—he headed straight for the pack of Grievers between him and the Cliff.

"Alby!" Newt screamed in horror and he was right behind him, chasing after the boy, but with his bad leg, he had no hope of catching Alby to stop him. Alby had already made it to the monsters and jumped on top of one.

Thomas and Minho broke free from the group and quickly reached Newt, dragging struggling back. "Alby!" Newt was in tears. "No! Let _go!_ " Newt yelled, struggling to break loose.

"Are you nuts!" Thomas shouted. "There's nothing you can do!"

Two more Grievers broke from the pack and swarmed over Alby, piling on top of each other, snapping and cutting at the boy, as if they wanted to rub it in, show their vicious cruelty. Somehow, impossibly, Alby didn't scream. Thomas lost sight of the body as he struggled with Newt, thankful for the distraction. Newt finally gave up, collapsing backward in defeat.

Alby'd flipped once and for all, Thomas thought, fighting the urge to rid his stomach of its contents. Their leader had been so scared to go back to whatever he'd seen, he'd chosen to sacrifice himself instead. He was gone. Totally gone.

Thomas helped steady Newt on his feet; the Glader couldn't stop staring at the spot where his love had disappeared.

"I can't believe it," Newt whispered. "I can't believe he just did that." Then his tear streaked face seemed harden, as if he were determined to reek vengeance.

Then, he sounds of the Grievers revving to life stole all of their looked up in horror. The creatures on both sides of their group seemed to have noticed them again. Spikes were popping in and out of blubbery skin; their bodies shuddered and pulsed. Then, in unison, the monsters moved forward, slowly, instrument-tipped appendages unfolding, pointed at Thomas and the Gladers, ready to kill. Tightening their trap formation like a noose, the Grievers steadily charged toward them.


	44. 44

"They're coming!" Teresa yelled. "We have to do something!"

Minho nodded once, a steel look of resolve hardening his features. Then he turned toward the Gladers. "We head straight for the Cliff! Fight through the middle, push the fuckin' things toward the walls. What matters most is getting as many people to the Griever Hole!"

Thomas looked away from him, back at the approaching monsters—they were only a few feet away. He gripped his poor excuse for a spear.

Ready!" Minho yelled next to Thomas, raising his barbwire-wrapped club into the air with one hand, a long silver knife in the other. He pointed the knife at the horde of Grievers; a flash glinted off the blade. "Now!"

The Keeper ran forward without waiting for a response. Newt, Thomas, and Ben went after him, right on his heels, and then the rest of the Gladers followed, a tight pack of roaring boys and one girl charging ahead to a bloody battle, weapons raised.

They quickly found that their weapons were useless. Thomas jabbed his spear at one of the vile creatures and the Griever simply sucked the stick into its mushy flesh. Then smacked Thomas with one of its claws, sending him flying as if he were a rag doll. Thomas crashed into a wall, the soft vines cushioning the impact and he slid the ground. Thomas was back on his feet, reentering the chaos in seconds.

Boys Thomas didn't know ran alongside him, whacking at Griever instruments with their makeshift weapons, jumping on them, attacking. The sounds—clashes, clangs, screams, moaning wails, roars of engines, spinning saws, snapping blades, the screech of spikes against the floor, hair-raising pleas for help—it all grew to a crescendo, became unbearable. The sounds echoing off the walls were a cacophony of terror—human screams, metal clashing against metal, motors roaring, the haunted shrieks of the Grievers, saws spinning, claws clasping, boys yelling for help. All was a blur, bloody and gray and flashes of steel.

To his left, Thomas witnessed a Griever's claw cut straight through Zart's chest like it was a sword and the boy was play-doe. Blood seeped from the corners of Zart's mouth. The Griever snatched its arm back and Zart's lifeless body collapsed on the floor of the Maze. Winston had picked up Alby's bow and arrow, flinging the steel-pointed shafts at anything nonhuman that moved, missing more than he hit.

Then quite suddenly, the Grievers shut down completely, their instruments sucked back through their blubbery skin, their lights turned off, their inside machines dead quiet. Thomas stood there huffing, trembling, and heaving. What had just happened? Was this one of their tricks? To his left, a hesistant Teresa kicked one of the lifeless blobs. It didn't do anything. The remaining Gladers stared at each others wide eyed.

After the loud sounds of battle, the corridor was suddenly earily silent. There were no screams of victory. No one was sure whether this was the end or not. Thomas looked around at the fallen Gladers. Half of them were dead. Thomas was devasted by the joy he felt because, other than Zart, he didn't know any of their names. Thomas looked himself over and his eyes grew impossibly wider. He was bleeding in so many different places. Thomas hadn't even realized he'd been cut.

" _A door opened!_ " Everyone's head turned to the end of the corridor. Minho stood there looking triumphant. "Everyone come on!" They were all a little hesitant to turn their backs on the silent blobs at first, but when none of them continued their attack, the remaining Gladers slowly krept around the motionless blobs of Griever and dead Gladers, as if any sudden sounds would wake the creatures. They all continued until they reached Minho at the edge of the Cliff.

Earlier, Minho and a couple of Runners had pulled out ropes of ivy and knotted them to vines still attached to the walls. They'd then tossed the loose ends over the Cliff, until they hit the Griever Hole, where now six or seven vines ran from the stone edge to an invisible rough square, hovering in the empty sky, where they disappeared into nothingness.

Thomas watched as first Minho lept out and vanished into nothing. Then, one by one, each Glader did the same, Chuck, Teresa, Ben, Winston, until it was Thomas's turn. Steeling his nerves, planted his left foot on the very edge of the Cliff and jumped, catapulting up and into the twilight air.

Then he hit the Hole.

A line of icy cold shot across Thomas's skin as he entered the Griever Hole, starting from his toes and continuing up his whole body, as if he'd jumped through a flat plane of freezing water. The world went even darker around him as his feet thumped to a landing on a slippery surface, then shot out from under him; he fell backward into a Glader's arms. Thomas recolonized the boy's face from seeing him around the Glade, but he didn't know his name. The boy helped Thomas to his feet as a few more guys jumped into the hole behind Thomas.

"Thanks man," Thomas huffed. The boy smiled and nodded. The Griever Hole would've been pitch-black if not for the beam of a few flashlights cutting through the darkness. As Thomas got his bearings, he realized they were standing in a ten-foot-high stone cylinder. It was damp, and covered in shiny, grimy oil, and it stretched out in front of them for dozens of yards before it faded into darkness. Thomas peered up at the Hole through which they'd come—it looked like a square window into a deep, starless stood one side of opening, watching as everyone landed, until finally, Newt stumbled in.

"I'm the last one. Nineteen of us. I counted."

Minho blanched. Only _nineteen?_ No one said a word then. No one said a word for a very long time. They looked around at each other, covered in blood, with ripped clothing. Then Minho stood a little taller. "You know what? Half might've died, but half of us _lived_. And nobody got stung. We've gotta get out of here." He pointed down the long tunnel. "There was a computer over there. I punched the code in and then heard the door open down that way." And the older boy turned and started walking up the tunnel without waiting for a response.

Newt nodded, ushering the other Gladers past him to follow. One by one they went until only he remained with Thomas and Ben.

"I'll go last," Thomas said.

No one argued. Newt went, then Teresa, then Ben, into the black tunnel. Even the flashlights seemed to get swallowed by the darkness. Thomas followed, not even bothering to look back at the dead Grievers.

After a minute or so of walking, he heard a shriek from ahead, followed by another, then another. Their cries faded, as if they were falling….

Murmurs made their way down the line, and finally Ben turned to Thomas. "Looks like it ends in a slide up there, shooting downward."

Thomas's stomach turned at the thought. It seemed like it was a game—for whoever had built the place, at least.

One by one he heard the Gladers' dwindling shouts and hoots up ahead. Then it was Newt's turn, then Chuck's. Teresa shone her light down on a steeply descending, slick black chute of metal.

"Guess we have no choice," she said.

"Guess not." Thomas had a strong feeling it wasn't a way out of their nightmare; he just hoped it didn't lead to another pack of Grievers.

Teresa slipped down the slide with an almost cheerful shriek, and Thomas followed her before he could talk himself out of it—anything was better than the Maze.

His body shot down a steep decline, slick with an oily goo that smelled awful—like burnt plastic and overused machinery. He twisted his body until he got his feet in front of him, then tried to hold his hands out to slow himself down. It was useless—the greasy stuff covered every inch of the stone; he couldn't grip anything.

The screams of the other Gladers echoed off the tunnel walls as they slid down the oily chute. Panic gripped Thomas's heart. He couldn't fight off the image that they'd been swallowed by some gigantic beast and were sliding down its long esophagus, about to land in its stomach at any second. And as if his thoughts had materialized, the smells changed—to something more like mildew and rot. He started gagging; it took all his effort not to throw up on himself.

The tunnel began to twist, turning in a rough spiral, just enough to slow them down, and Thomas's feet smacked right into Teresa, hitting her in the head; he recoiled and a feeling of complete misery sank over him. They were still falling. Time seemed to stretch out, endless.

Around and around they went down the tube. Nausea burned in his stomach—the squishing of the goo against his body, the smell, the circling motion. He was just about to turn his head to the side to throw up when Teresa let out a sharp cry—this time there was no echo. A second later, Thomas flew out of the tunnel and landed on her.

Bodies scrambled everywhere, people on top of people, groaning and squirming in confusion as they tried to push away from each other. Thomas wiggled his arms and legs to scoot away from Teresa, then crawled a few more feet to throw up, emptying his stomach.

Still shuddering from the experience, he wiped at his mouth with his hand, only to realize it was covered in slimy filth. He sat up, rubbing both hands on the ground, and he finally got a good look at where they'd arrived. As he gaped, he saw, also, that everyone else had pulled themselves together into a group, taking in the new surroundings.

They were in a huge underground chamber big enough to hold nine or ten Homesteads. From top to bottom, side to side, the place was covered in all kinds of machinery and wires and ducts and computers. On one side of the room—to his right—there was a row of forty or so large white pods that looked like enormous coffins. Across from that on the other side stood large glass doors, although the lighting made it impossible to see what was on the other side.

"Look!" someone shouted, but he'd already seen it, his breath catching in his throat. Goose bumps broke out all over him, a creepy fear trickling down his spine like a wet spider.

Directly in front of them, a row of twenty or so darkly tinged windows stretched across the compound horizontally, one after the other. Behind each one, a person—some men, some women, all of them pale and thin—sat observing the Gladers, staring through the glass with squinted eyes. Thomas shuddered, terrified—they all looked like ghosts. Angry, starving, sinister apparitions of people who'd never been happy when alive, much less dead.

But Thomas knew they were not, of course, ghosts. They were the people who'd sent them all to the Glade. The people who'd taken their lives away from them.

The Creators.


	45. 45

Thomas took a step backward, noticing others doing the same. A deathly silence sucked the life out of the air as every last Glader stared at the row of windows, at the row of observers. Thomas watched one of them look down to write something, another reach up and put on a pair of glasses. They all wore black coats over white shirts, a word stitched on their right breast—he couldn't quite make out what it said. None of them wore any kind of discernible facial expression—they were all sallow and gaunt, miserably sad to look upon.

They continued to stare at the Gladers; a man shook his head, a woman nodded. Another man reached up and scratched his nose—the most human thing Thomas had seen any of them do.

"Who are those people?" Chuck whispered, but his voice echoed throughout the chamber with a raspy edge.

"The Creators," Minho said; then he spat on the floor. "I'm gonna break your fucking faces!" he screamed, so loudly Thomas almost held his hands over his ears.

"What do we do?" Thomas asked. "What are they waiting on?"

"They've probably revved the Grievers back up," Newt said. "They're probably coming right—"

A loud, slow beeping sound cut him off, like the warning alarm of a huge truck driving in reverse, but much more powerful. It came from everywhere, booming and echoing throughout the chamber.

"What now?" Chuck asked, not hiding the concern in his voice.

Thomas craned his neck as he scanned the place top to bottom, trying to find the source of the beeps. But nothing had changed. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the other Gladers looking in the direction of the doors. He did as well; his heart quickened when he saw that one of the doors was swinging open toward them.

The beeping stopped, and a silence as deep as outer space settled on the chamber. Thomas waited without breathing, braced himself for something horrible to come flying through the door.

Instead, two people walked into the room.

One was a woman. An actual grown-up. She seemed very ordinary, wearing black pants and a button-down white shirt with a logo on the breast—wicked spelled in blue capital letters. Her brown hair was cut at the shoulder, and she had a thin face with dark eyes. As she walked toward the group, she neither smiled nor frowned—it was almost as if she didn't notice or care they were standing there.

 _I know her,_ Thomas thought. But it was a cloudy kind of recollection—he couldn't remember her name or what she had to do with the Maze, but she seemed familiar. And not just her looks, but the way she walked, her mannerisms—stiff, without a hint of joy. She stopped several feet in front of the Gladers and slowly looked left to right, taking them all in.

The other person, standing next to her, was a boy wearing an overly large sweatshirt, its hood pulled up over his head, concealing his face.

"Welcome back," the woman finally said. "Over three years, and so few dead. _Amazing_."

Thomas felt his mouth drop open—felt anger redden his face.

" _Excuse_ me?" Newt asked.

Her eyes scanned the crowd again before falling on Newt. "Everything has gone according to plan, Mr. Newton. Although we expected a few more of you to give up along the way."

She glanced over at her companion, then reached out and pulled the hood off the boy. He looked up, his eyes wet with tears. Every Glader in the room sucked in a breath of surprise. Thomas felt his knees buckle.

It was Gally.

Thomas blinked, then rubbed his eyes, like something out of a cartoon. He was consumed with shock and anger.

It was Gally.

"The _fuck_ is he doing here!" Minho shouted.

"You're safe now," the woman responded as if she hadn't heard him. "Please, be at ease."

"At _ease?_ " Minho barked. "Who are you, telling us to be at ease?" Thomas could see veins pulsing in Minho's neck. He worried what Minho might do—then again, Thomas kind of wanted him to go punch her in the face.

"Gally," Newt said, abruptly. "What's going on?"

The dark-haired boy looked at him; his eyes flared for a moment, his head shaking slightly. But he didn't respond. Something's off with him, Thomas thought. Worse than before.

The woman nodded as if proud of him. "One day you'll all be grateful for what we've done for you. I can only promise this, and trust your minds to accept it. If you don't, then the whole thing was a mistake. Dark times, Mr. Newton. Dark times."

She paused. "There is, of course, one final Variable." She stepped back.

Thomas focused on Gally. The boy's whole body trembled, his face pasty white, making his wet, red eyes stand out like bloody splotches on paper. His lips pressed together; the skin around them twitched, as if he were trying to speak but couldn't.

"Gally?" Thomas asked, trying to suppress the complete hatred he had for him.

Words burst from Gally's mouth. "They… can _control_ me… I don't—" His eyes bulged, a hand went to his throat as if he were choking. "I… _have_ … to…" Each word was a croaking cough. Then he stilled, his face calming, his body relaxing.

It was just like Alby in bed, back in the Glade, after he went through the Changing. The same type of thing had happened to him. What did it—

But Thomas didn't have time to finish his thought. Gally reached behind himself, pulled something long and shiny from his back pocket. The lights of the chamber flashed off the silvery surface—a wicked-looking dagger, gripped tightly in his fingers. With unexpected speed, he reared back and threw the knife at Thomas. As he did so, Thomas heard a shout to his right, sensed movement. Toward him.

The blade windmilled, its every turn visible to Thomas, as if the world had turned to slow motion. As if it did so for the sole purpose of allowing him to feel the terror of seeing such a thing. On the knife came, flipping over and over, straight at him. A strangled cry was forming in his throat; he urged himself to move but he couldn't.

Then, inexplicably, Chuck was there, diving in front of him. Thomas felt as if his feet had been frozen in blocks of ice; he could only stare at the scene of horror unfolding before him, completely helpless.

With a sickening, wet thunk, the dagger slammed into Chuck's chest, burying itself to the hilt. The boy screamed, fell to the floor, his body already convulsing. Blood poured from the wound, dark crimson. His legs slapped against the floor, feet kicking aimlessly with onrushing death. Red spit oozed from between his lips. Thomas felt as if the world were collapsing around him, crushing his heart.

He fell to the ground, pulled Chuck's shaking body into his arms.


	46. 46

Thomas heard someone scream. A loud inconsolable scream. Then he realized thath it was himself. His voice felt like acid ripping through his throat. "Chuck!"

The boy shook uncontrollably, blood everywhere, wetting Thomas's hands. Chuck's eyes had rolled up in their sockets, dull white orbs. Blood trickled out of his nose and mouth.

"Chuck…," Thomas said, this time a whisper. There had to be something they could do. They could save him. They—

The boy stopped convulsing, stilled. His eyes slid back into normal position, focused on Thomas, clinging to life. "Thom … mas." It was one word, barely there.

"Hang on, Chuck," Thomas said. "Don't die—fight it. Someone get help!"

Nobody moved, and deep inside, Thomas knew why. Nothing could help now. It was over. Black spots swam before Thomas's eyes; the room tilted and swayed. No, he thought. Not Chuck. Not Chuck. Anyone but Chuck.

Then the boy's eyes closed, his body went limp. One last breath wheezed from his mouth.

Thomas stared at him, stared at his friend's lifeless body.

Something happened within Thomas. It started deep down in his chest, a seed of rage. Of revenge. Of hate. Something dark and terrible. And then it exploded, bursting through his lungs, through his neck, through his arms and legs. Through his mind.

He let go of Chuck, stood up, trembling, turned to face their new visitors.

And then Thomas snapped. He completely and utterly snapped.

He rushed forward, threw himself on Gally, grasping with his fingers like claws. He found the boy's throat, squeezed, fell to the ground on top of him. He straddled the boy's torso, gripped him with his legs so he couldn't escape. Thomas started punching.

He held Gally down with his left hand, pushing down on the boy's neck, as his right fist rained punches upon Gally's face, one after another. Down and down and down, slamming his balled knuckles into the boy's cheek and nose. There was crunching, there was blood, there were horrible screams. Thomas didn't know which were louder—Gally's or his own. He beat him—beat him as he released every ounce of rage he'd ever owned.

And then he was being pulled away by Minho and Newt, his arms still flailing even when they only hit air. They dragged him across the floor; he fought them, squirmed, yelled to be left alone. His eyes remained on Gally, lying there, still; Thomas could feel the hatred pouring out, as if a visible line of flame connected them.

And then, just like that, it all vanished. There were only thoughts of Chuck.

He threw off Minho's and Newt's grip, ran to the limp, lifeless body of his friend. He grabbed him, pulled him back into his arms, ignoring the blood, ignoring the frozen look of death on the boy's face.

"No!" Thomas shouted, sadness consuming him. "No!"

Thomas hugged Chuck to his chest, squeezed him as tightly as possible, as if that could somehow bring him back, or show thanks for saving his life, for being his friend when no one else would.

Then, his grieving was cut short as quite suddenly a series of shouts and commotion outside the entrance through which the woman had come. She visibly panicked, the blood draining from her face as she turned toward the door. Thomas followed her gaze.

Several men and women dressed in grimy jeans and soaking-wet coats burst through the entrance with guns raised, yelling and screaming words over each other. It was impossible to understand what they were saying. Their guns—some were rifles, other pistols—looked … archaic, rustic. Almost like toys abandoned in the woods for years, recently discovered by the next generation of kids ready to play war.

Thomas stared in shock as two of the newcomers tackled the WICKED woman to the floor. Then one stepped back and drew up his gun, aimed.

 _No way_ , Thomas thought. _No_ —

Flashes lit the air as several shots exploded from the gun, slamming into the woman's body. She was dead, a bloody mess.

Thomas took several steps backward, almost stumbled.

A man walked up to the Gladers as the others in his group spread out around them, sweeping their guns left and right as they shot at the observation windows, shattering them. Thomas heard screams, saw blood, looked away, focused on the man who approached them. He had dark hair, his face young but full of wrinkles around the eyes, as if he'd spent each day of his life worrying about how to make it to the next.

"We don't have time to explain," the man said, his voice as strained as his face. "Just follow me and run like your life depends on it. Because it _does_."

With that the man made a few motions to his companions, then turned and ran out the big glass doors, his gun held rigidly before him. Gunfire and cries of agony still rattled the chamber, but Thomas did his best to ignore them and follow instructions.

"Go!" one of the rescuers—that was the only way Thomas could think of them—screamed from behind.

After the briefest hesitation, the Gladers followed, almost stomping each other in their rush to get out of the chamber, as far away from the Grievers and the Maze as possible. Thomas ran with them, bunched up in the back of the group. They had no choice but to leave Chuck's body behind.

Thomas felt no emotion—he was completely numb. He ran down a long hallway, into a dimly lit tunnel. Up a winding flight of stairs. Everything was dark, smelled like electronics. Down another hallway. Up more stairs. More hallways. Thomas wanted to ache for Chuck, get excited about their escape, but he'd seen too much. There was only emptiness now. A void. He kept going.

On they ran, some of the men and women leading from ahead, some yelling encouragement from behind.

They reached another set of glass doors and went through them into a massive downpour of rain, falling from a black sky. Nothing was visible but dull sparkles flashing off the pounding sheets of water.

The leader didn't stop moving until they reached a huge bus, its sides dented and scarred, most of the windows webbed with cracks. Rain sluiced down it all, making Thomas imagine a huge beast cresting out of the ocean.

"Get on!" the man screamed. "Hurry!"

They did, forming into a tight pack behind the door as they entered, one by one. It seemed to take forever, Gladers pushing and scrambling their way up the three stairs and into the seats.

They were almost to the door when a hand suddenly slammed against his shoulder, gripping his shirt. He cried out as someone jerked him backward, slamming him into the ground, throwing up a spray of water. A bolt of pain shot down his spine as a woman's head appeared two inches above him, upside down, blocking out everything.

Greasy hair hung down, touching Thomas, framing a face hidden in shadow. A horrible smell filled his nostrils, like eggs and milk gone rotten. The woman pulled back enough for someone's flashlight to reveal her features—pale, wrinkly skin covered in horrible sores, oozing with pus. Sheer terror filled Thomas, froze him.

"Gonna save us all!" the hideous woman said, spit flying out of her mouth, spraying Thomas. "Gonna save us from the _Flare!_ " She laughed, not much more than a hacking cough.

The woman yelped when one of the rescuers grabbed her with both hands and yanked her off of Thomas, who recovered his wits and scrambled to his feet. He backed into the nearest Glader, Teresa, staring as the man dragged the woman away, her legs kicking out weakly, her eyes on Thomas. She pointed at him, called out, "Don't believe a word they tell ya! Gonna save us from the Flare, ya are!"

When the man was several yards from the bus, he tossed the woman to the ground. "Stay put or I'll shoot you dead!" he yelled at her; then he turned to Thomas. "Get on the bus!"

Thomas, so terrified by the ordeal that his body shook, turned and followed Teresa up the stairs and into the aisle of the bus. Wide eyes watched him as they walked all the way to the back seat and plopped down and she huddled up to him. For some reason, Thomas fet a new fondness for the girl. It wasn't exactly friendship, but she had faught along with them against the Grievers and that meant something to Thomas. For that reason, he didn't push the girl away. He let her head rest on his shoulder.

One of the rescuers, a woman, sat across from Thomas and Teresa; the leader who'd spoken to them earlier climbed onto the bus and took a seat at the wheel, cranked up the engine. The bus started rolling forward.

Just as it did, Thomas saw a flash of movement outside the window. The sore-riddled woman had gotten to her feet, was sprinting toward the front of the bus, waving her arms wildly, screaming something drowned out by the sounds of the storm. Her eyes were lit with lunacy or terror—Thomas couldn't tell which.

He leaned toward the glass of the window as she disappeared from his view up ahead.

"Wait!" Thomas shrieked, but no one heard him. Or if they did, they didn't care.

The driver gunned the engine—the bus lurched as it slammed into the woman's body. A thump almost jolted Thomas out of his seat as the front wheels ran over her, quickly followed by a second thump—the back wheels. Thomas looked at Teresa, saw the sickened look on her face that surely mirrored his own.

Without a word, the driver kept his foot on the gas and the bus plowed forward, driving off into the rain-swept night.


	47. 47

The next hour or so was a blur of sights and sounds for Thomas.

The driver drove at reckless speeds, through towns and cities, the heavy rain obscuring most of the view. Lights and buildings were warped and watery, like something out of a drug-induced hallucination. At one point people outside rushed the bus, their clothes ratty, hair matted to their heads, strange sores like those Thomas had seen on the woman covering their terrified faces. They pounded on the sides of the vehicle as if they wanted to get on, wanted to escape whatever horrible lives they were living.

The bus never slowed. Teresa remained silent next to Thomas.

He finally got up enough nerve to speak to the woman sitting across the aisle.

"What's going on?" he asked, not sure how else to pose it.

The woman looked over at him. Wet, black hair hung in strings around her face. Dark eyes full of sorrow. "That's a very long story." The woman's voice came out much kinder than Thomas had expected, giving him hope that she truly was a friend—that all of their rescuers were friends. Despite the fact that they'd run over a woman in cold blood.

"Please," Teresa said. "Please tell us something."

The woman looked back and forth between Thomas and Teresa, then let out a sigh. "It'll take a while before you get your memories back, if ever—we're not scientists, we have no idea what they did to you, or how they did it."

Thomas's heart dropped at the thought of maybe having lost his memory forever, but he pressed on. "Who are they?" he asked.

"It started with the sun flares," the woman said, her gaze growing distant.

"What—" Teresa began, but Thomas shushed her.

 _Just let her talk_ , he said to her mind. _She looks like she will_.

 _Okay_.

The woman almost seemed in a trance as she spoke, never taking her eyes off an indistinct spot in the distance. "The sun flares couldn't have been predicted. Sun flares are normal, but these were unprecedented, massive, spiking higher and higher—and once they were noticed, it was only minutes before their heat slammed into Earth. First our satellites were burned out, and thousands died instantly, millions within days, countless miles became wastelands. Then came the sickness."

She paused, took a breath. "As the ecosystem fell apart, it became _impossible_ to control the sickness—even to keep it in South America. The jungles were gone, but the insects weren't. People call it the Flare now. It's a horrible, _horrible_ thing. Only the richest can be treated, no one can be cured. Unless the rumors from the Andes are true."

Thomas almost broke his own advice—questions filled his mind. Horror grew in his heart. He sat and listened as the woman continued.

"As for you, all of you—you're just a few of millions orphaned. They tested thousands, chose you for the big one. The ultimate test. Everything you lived through was calculated and thought through. Catalysts to study your reactions, your brain waves, your thoughts. All in an attempt to find those capable of helping us find a way to beat the Flare."

She paused again, pulled a string of hair behind her ear. "Most of the physical effects are caused by something else. First the delusions start, then animal instincts begin to overpower the human ones. Finally it consumes them, destroys their humanity. It's all in the brain. The Flare lives in their brains. It is an _awful_ thing. Better to die than catch it."

The woman broke her gaze into nothingness and focused on Thomas, then looked at Teresa, then Thomas again. "We won't let them do this to children. We've sworn our lives to fighting WICKED. We cannot lose our humanity, no matter the end result."

She folded her hands in her lap, looked down at them. "You'll learn more in time. We live far in the north. We're separated from the Andes by thousands of miles. They call it the Scorch—it lies between here and there. It's centered mainly around what they used to call the equator—it's just heat and dust now, filled with savages consumed by the Flare beyond help. We're trying to cross that land—to find the cure. But until then, we'll fight WICKED and stop the experiments and tests." She looked carefully at Thomas, then Teresa. "It's our hope that you'll join us."

She looked away then, gazing out her window.

Thomas looked at Teresa, raised his eyebrows in question. She simply shook her head and then laid it on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

 _I'm too tired to think about it_ , she said. _Let's just be safe for now._

 _Maybe we are,_ he replied. Maybe.

He heard the soft sounds of her sleep, but he knew that sleep would be impossible for him. He felt such a raging storm of conflicting emotions, he couldn't identify any of them. Still—it was better than the dull void he'd experienced earlier. He could only sit and stare out the window into the rain and blackness, pondering words like Flare and sickness and experiment and Scorch and WICKED. He could only sit and hope that things might be better now than they'd been in the Maze.

But as he jiggled and swayed with the movements of the bus, felt Teresa's head thump against his shoulder every once in a while when they hit big bumps, heard her stir and fall back to sleep, heard the murmurs of other conversations from other Gladers, his thoughts kept returning to one thing.

Chuck

ooo

Two hours later, the bus stopped.

They had pulled into a muddy parking lot that surrounded a nondescript building with several rows of windows. The woman and other rescuers shuffled the eighteen boys and one girl through the front door and up a flight of stairs, then into a huge dormitory with a series of bunk beds lined up along one of the walls. On the opposite side were some dressers and tables. Curtain-covered windows checkered each wall of the room.

The place was full of color. Bright yellow paint, red blankets, green curtains. After the drab grayness of the Glade, it was as if they'd been transported to a living rainbow. Seeing it all, seeing the beds and the dressers, all made up and fresh—the sense of normalcy was almost overwhelming. Too good to be true. Minho said it best on entering their new world: "I've been shucked and gone to heaven."

Thomas found it hard to feel joy, as if he'd betray Chuck by doing so. But there was something there. Something.

Their bus-driving leader left the Gladers in the hands of a small staff—nine or ten men and women dressed in pressed black pants and white shirts, their hair immaculate, their faces and hands clean. They were smiling.

The colors. The beds. The staff. Thomas felt an impossible happiness trying to break through inside him. An enormous pit lurked in the middle of it, though. A dark depression that might never leave—memories of Chuck and his brutal murder. His sacrifice. But despite that, despite everything, despite all the woman on the bus had told them about the world they'd reentered, Thomas felt safe for the very first time since coming out of the Box.

Beds were assigned, clothes and bathroom things were passed out, dinner was served. Pizza. Real, bona fide, greasy-fingers _pizza_. Thomas devoured each bite, hunger trumping everything else, the mood of contentment and relief around him palpable. Most of the Gladers had remained quiet through it all, perhaps worried that speaking would make everything vanish. But there were plenty of smiles. Thomas had gotten so used to looks of despair, it was almost unsettling to see happy faces. Especially when he was having such a hard time feeling it himself.

Soon after eating, no one argued when they were told it was time for bed.

Certainly not Thomas. He felt as if he could sleep for a month


	48. 48

Thomas shared a bunk with Minho, who insisted on sleeping up top; Newt and Frypan were in the room next to them. The staff put Teresa up in a separate part wing of the building, shuffling her away before she could even say goodbye.

As Thomas was settling into the soft mattress for the night, he was interrupted.

"Hey, Thomas," Minho said from above him.

"Yeah?" Thomas was so tired the word barely came out.

"What do you think happened to the Gladers who stayed behind?"

Thomas hadn't thought about it. His mind had been occupied with Chuck. "I don't know. But based on how many of us died getting here, I wouldn't like to be one of them right now. Grievers are probably swarming all over them." He couldn't believe how nonchalant his voice sounded as he said it.

"You think we're safe with these people?" Minho asked.

Thomas pondered the question for a moment. There was only one answer to hold on to. "Yeah, I think we're safe."

Minho said something else, but Thomas didn't hear. Exhaustion consuming him, his mind wandered to his short time in the Maze, his time as a Runner and how much he'd wanted it—ever since that first night in the Glade. It felt like a hundred years ago. Like a dream.

The small room was silent.

"Minho?" Thomas asked, a little hesitant to make his request.

"What, shank? I was almost sleep." Thomas smiled at the boy's snarky response. Thomas found it hard to believe that when he'd first met Minho, that snarky trait had almost made him walk away from the boy. Now Thomas felt that he couldn't live without it.

"Will you come down here and hold me?" Thomas's voice was much smaller than he'd intended. A part of him felt like Minho hadn't heard him. But the older boy's head popped over the side of the top bunk. He peered down at Thomas with an arched eyebrow, making him blush a deep crimson.

"Seriously?" Minho asked.

Thomas nodded. Trying and failed to fight away his blush. Minho quietly climbed down from the top bunk and squeezed in behind Thomas in the small bed, holding the boy in spoon.

"I'm really sorry about Chuck," Minho whispered in his ear.

Thomas felt a sharp pang and closed his eyes as he sank deeper into the misery of the night. "He could be so annoying," he said. He paused, thought of that night when Chuck had scared the crap out of Gally in the bathroom. "But it hurts. Feels like I lost a brother."

"I know. He died saving you," Minho said. "He made the choice himself. Just don't ever waste it."

Thomas felt tears swell under his eyelids; one escaped and trickled down into his pillow. A full minute passed without any words between them. Then he said, "Minho?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I have goodnight kiss?" Thomas's voice was even quiter than it was before.

"You're really needy tonight, aren't you?" Minho responded sarcastically. Thomas chuckled at the joke, but Minho rolled Thomas over all the same. He planted a few soft kisses on the younger boy's lips. "Goodnight, Thomas."

"Good night, Minho," he said.

The boys closed their eyes and quickly fell asleep in each other's arms.

 **End of Book One**


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